Cracked
by Bumblie Bee
Summary: After a fall on a case Sherlock tries to hide both the injury and his past from John.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sherlock ran down the street, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through his veins and his thick blue coat flowing behind him. He was closing the gap between himself and the Runner and he knew the man ahead was tiring. He could hear John's footfalls crunching heavily on the gravel as he ran, his brilliant brain never stopping, always knowing what was happening around him. But there was one thing Sherlock's thundering brain didn't notice, not until it was too late anyway. One second he was running as fast as he could, his only intention on catching up to the mysterious figure in front of him and the next his foot was caught on a wooden block, his body flying through the air. He landed with a loud thump, a slight crack and a sudden searing pain through his right arm.

Sherlock rolled and pushed himself up into a sitting position as he instinctively pulled his arm in, cradling it on his lap. He felt his eyes close and face tighten with the pain but instantly smoothed it out as he tried to steady his breathing and calm his racing heart. He reopened his eyes just in time to see John skid to a stop in front of him. John opened his mouth, obviously about to ask the dreaded question of '_Are you okay?' _but Sherlock was quicker.

"I'm fine, go," he hissed, nodding in the direction of the Runner. John nodded quickly at his friend before he continued sprinting down the road. Sherlock released the breath that he hadn't been trying to hold the second John started to run. He looked down at his throbbing arm in his lap and gently pulled back the sleeve of his coat, fumbled with the button on the cuff and finally pealed back the sleeve of the shirt. The arm was pale and unmarked but he could tell it was broken, simply by the pain radiating from just above his wrist, the position he had landed in, and the loud, inevitable crack as he had hit the floor.

He studied the arm further, his deduction skills working hard on the severity of the break. The bone had not pierced the skin, obvious, so not an open fracture, and the wrist still looked relatively normal so hopefully the bones hadn't moved. That was good, so long as the bone could heal properly by itself he wouldn't need to go to the hospital; hospitals were dull. He knew what John would say, though, if the doctor knew that he was hiding a break, but he had done it before when he was little. It was actually the same wrist, when he thought about it, that he had broken when he was eight, the break he had hidden from his family. Unsurprisingly it had been Mycroft that had noticed that his silent and sulky younger brother was only eating with his left hand, the right cradled on his lap. He had been stupid then though, the break was serious and the bones out of place, caused by an _Idiot_ three years older that had twisted his arm behind his back although, judging by the bully's surprised squeak when the crack had sounded, he had not been aiming to break the bone.

Sherlock was pulled from his memories by the sound of feet on the gravelled path. Judging by the weight of the footsteps and the stride length he could tell that it was probably John and not the Runner. He glanced up, confirming his deduction, before, as hurriedly yet carefully as he could, pulled the sleeve back down, buttoned the cuff and slid down the coat sleeve. Slowly Sherlock eased himself to his feet, cradling his throbbing arm to his stomach. John jogged towards his friend, panting hard and clutching his side. The look on his face showed the Runner had gotten away.

"Are you okay?" he gasped eventually, when he had calmed his breathing enough to speak, still holding the apparent stitch.

"What?" asked Sherlock, feigning innocence in hope that John would leave him be. The plan failed though and John nodded towards his friend's arm that he held with the other. "Your arm?" he asked, his voice still breathless.

"I'm fine, it's just a sprain," he replied with a slight shrug. The doctor nodded sceptically but said nothing, not wanting to start an argument. Together they walked down the side street towards the main road to hail a cab; they had run too far from Baker Street to make it back on foot and it was dark and, though he hid it well, the constant throbbing in the detective's wrist was getting to him.

The Taxi drive to Baker Street was taking longer than normal as the traffic was at a total standstill. Sherlock hated it, he could feel his wrist beginning to swell inside his cuff and he needed to get the shirt off. He also knew that he needed to ice the break to reduce the bruising and swelling as both would alert John to the true extent of his 'sprain'. He rested his head against the glass, sending himself to his Mind Palace to free himself of the pain, but it was hard and the pain was still there just now buzzing at the back of his mind. Why wasn't it working properly? It had worked all those years ago, when he was young. Although, that was probably because he hadn't been the most…sane of children when he was eight.

Sherlock suddenly because aware of a gentle hand on his shoulder. He jumped upright, grimacing as the pain returned in full blast to his arm. He winced involuntarily and shut his eyes, only opening them again when he heard John worriedly asking if he was alright. The cab was quiet, and the engine off. They were home then, back at Baker Street.

"Mm, I'm fine," he mumbled as he opened the cab door without looking at his friend and climbed from the taxi. It was cold outside, and dark but at least they were home. He hurried to the flat, leaving John to pay for the cab and pushed at the door, only to find it locked. He fumbled for his keys, glad that he had put them in his left pocket of his coat that day and unlocked the door. He pushed it open, trying to appear as calm as he could as he hurried into the flat. He rushed up the stairs despite the searing in his wrist as he heard John shutting the door behind him. Knowing he needed to ice his wrist he went to the kitchen to find some.

Oh, there was no ice in the freezer, he remembered now, he had used it all up last week for an experiment and had not replaced it. He would have to just use cold water then. Knowing that he couldn't rest his wrist in the bathroom sink he ran a cold bath, removed his shirt and coat, with as little wincing as possible, and knelt next to the bath, leaning over it and letting his arm float on the surface. Despite the unusual position, the bath wasn't as bad as he had thought, maybe a little uncomfortable but bearable. Presides, it took the edge off the throbbing in his arm.

He had only been in the bathroom for a minute when there was a tentative knock at the door.

"Are you okay in there, Sherlock?" asked John, cautiously. Why was he always so concerned?

"I'm fine John," Sighed Sherlock, "Just having a bath," he added, hopefully that would keep his friend and his dreaded doctoring skills away for a while.

"Okay," replied John, although the worry was still evident in his voice. Sherlock knew his arm would be bruised, swollen and painful for another six weeks at least and held back a dramatic sigh. He wouldn't be able to use it at all for the first couple of weeks in case he jostled the bones out of place and then it would still be fragile, possible for months. That meant no energetic cases, no running, no fighting and it was then that he decided that they could possibly be the six longest weeks of his life.

Three days later and Sherlock was board. He had not been able to go to any cases as Lestrade knew him better than John and was sure to notice his lack of arm movement. Surprisingly John had said very little over the past days, being at work for two of them. It was just before dinner when John brought the subject up for the first time since the night they had chased the Runner.

"Sherlock, let me take a look at your arm," sighed John, eventually breaking the silence.

"It's fine," Said Sherlock, as he Googled the toxicity of metallic acrylic paint on his phone.

"Sherlock!" John tried again, the exasperation clear in his voice as he watched his friend typing away on his Blackberry.

"It's fine," the detective repeated, still glaring at his phone.

"Look, there's no point lying, it's obvious your arm hurts."

At this comment Sherlock looked up, raising his eyebrows in interest. He was certain that he had shown almost no outward signs of the pain he was in, but then again, John was a doctor so he had probably seen people hiding pain many times before. "Go on then," Sherlock replied, his BlackBerry forgotten.

"Well, I think you broke your wrist, when you fell," his flatmate began, somewhat nervously. "You see, normally when you hurt something you try to ignore it, no matter how much pain you're in. Remember after you were knocked down and we practically had to _force_ you to use the crutches? Well, you haven't been using your right hand since you fell." Here Sherlock opened his mouth to argue back but John continued, not allowing the detective to get a word in. "I know you've texted but you've been using mainly your left hand and you've had your phone in your lap the entire time so you haven't had to _move_ your wrist. Not to mention you've been doing everything left handed with your right sat in your lap for days and you hold it still when you walk. And you haven't played your violin. But it's not because of the pain is it? It's because you don't want to jostle the bones out of place because that would need a trip to the hospital. But mainly, I can just see the extensive bruising at the base of your hand; you wouldn't get that from a sprain." John smirked slowly despite his worry at the shocked look on the detectives face.

"See," he grinned, "you're not the only one who can deduce things!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sherlock pushed himself upright, staring back at John across the room, his eyebrows knitting together as his phenomenal brain tried to puzzle it out. John knew now, didn't he? So there was no point hiding his wrist and the break inside. But then again, his friend was a doctor and he would be sent for an x-ray, the only sensible option in the opinion of a medic, and he really did not want an X-ray taken of his arm. He knew from past experience on his cases that fractures in bones can be seen even after they are healed as the bone is newer there. John would want to see the x-ray of his arm, and would then see the previous break from when he was eight and the metal that had been left there.

He hated that time in his life, the time he was at school. Well, pre-prep was okay, all the children were small and ignorant, and neither knew or cared about the ways of life then. He was still strange to them though, and they called him names but other than that they didn't really think about it, too interested by Lego and such things. When he moved up to Prep school, well, that was a different matter. The boys were bigger there and he was just a pathetic year three, or Upper II as they were called. The year six boys had hated him, beat him in the playground, although not enough to do any real damage. They were all so much bigger and stronger and, although he would never admit it, they scared the life out of him. Within a week of starting 'Big School' he had stopped talking, to his teachers, to the other boys and girls in his class, to everyone in the wretched place. Eventually he stopped talking at home too. He remembered the silence at school, his fear of speaking, his fear of those boys…

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's head snapped up, John's voice pulling him from his memories. He wondered how long he'd been sitting there, staring ahead with his eyes unfocused, locked in his mind. Probably a while, judging by the doctor's worried expression.

"Mmm?" he replied eventually, still looking at John with a look of confusion, faked obviously.

"Um, are you alright?" John asked cautiously, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Perfectly," Said Sherlock, picking up his phone and tapping on the small keyboard. He risked a glance up when John didn't say anything. The doctor was looking annoyed, running his hand through his hands in frustration. Sherlock relaxed slightly, his mask was back up then, hiding his emotions.

"Sherlock!" John argued. "I need to see your wrist."

"It's fine," insisted the detective, not looking up from his phone in hope that his friend might drop the subject.

"We are not having this conversation again Sherlock!"

No reply, only the tapping of BlackBerry keys.

"Fine, Sherlock! You sit there and ignore me! But if you end up with permanent damage to that wrist or your hand then it's your own fault, not mine!" John snapped, folding his arms in frustration. He hadn't thought this would have any effect on the detective and had said it more as a burst of anger than anything else so was actually surprised when the tapping of keys stopped and, although Sherlock didn't look up from his phone, John could see his eyebrows had knitted together in confusion, real this time.

He tried again, sensing weakness in the detective. "Sherlock, just let me have a look? Please?"

There was no reply and John thought he had failed but then Sherlock looked up, a hint of fear in his silver eyes, and gave a slight but obvious nod of acceptance.

John sighed in relief as he pushed himself out of the chair and knelt before Sherlock who was still sat on the sofa. The detective held out his arm, somewhat cautiously, watching his friend with wary eyes .

"Why did you hide it?" John asked quietly as he un-buttoned the cuff of his friend's shirt, his nimble fingers careful on the sore limb. He let the detective pull up the sleeve himself before helping to settle the arm on a cushion that he had placed on the younger Holmes' lap. He didn't even wince when his arm was moved but John could see the pain he was hiding in his eyes. Sherlock said nothing in response to his friend's question, deciding to simply stare at the bare arm which was now resting on his lap instead. John sighed and gave up hoping for a reply, turning his mind back to the examination at hand.

The arm was badly swollen with dark bruises that faded just before the wrist. John knew instantly that his deduction had been right and the wrist was broken, although, thankfully, the bones did not appear to have moved. It would still have been painful though, very painful, and to think that Sherlock had been hiding it for three days…

"Um, I need to turn it over now," said John eventually, breaking the silence. "Your arm, I mean…"

Sherlock nodded and then winced as he slowly rotated his arm, resting it on the cushion so the pale underside faced upwards, the fingers curling limply. The underside of the arm was just as bruised and swollen as the top although a couple of straight white lines stood out clearly on the marred skin. John bent closer, studying them with concern. At first he had thought they were simple scars, possibly from a case or a past experiment but as he thought deeper he realised what they were, worry instantly filling his mind.

"Er, Sherlock? Did you ever have surgery on your arm?" John asked, the concern obvious in his voice as he glanced up at his friend.

"Yes, when I was eight. The break was worse that time though, and I was young and ignorant at the time," Sherlock answered stiffly.

"I doubt you were ever ignorant Sherlock," muttered John, his attention focused as he ran his fingers gingerly along his friends arm. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as John's fingers neared his wrist but he said nothing, choosing to suffer in silence than let his emotion fun free. The doctor couldn't feel any displaced bones in the arm, however there was a strangely bumped area to the bone on either side of the arm. Eventually, John looked back up, thinking hard.

"Um, Sherlock, Did they leave metal pins in your arm? When you were little?" he asked in confusion and concern.

"Yes," replied the detective shortly, refusing to meet the doctor's eyes. John sighed, wondering what to do. He knew Sherlock wouldn't want to go to the hospital but it was common knowledge for a doctor that having metal plates still in the arm could cause major problems if the bone was broken again. However, the more he thought about it the more he realised there was nothing else he could do.

"I need to take you for an X-Ray, Sherlock," John said eventually, looking up at his friend in what he hoped was a calm and friendly way. This was normally the expression that he saved for small children up at the hospital but he knew that Sherlock could easily be classed as a child in many ways.

"Can't you just splint it here or something?" he asked, his voice slightly shakier than normal.

John looked up at his friend, worried by the fear visible in his eyes. "I'm sorry Sherlock, but this is going to need the hospital," he said calmly.

"No, John, please, no," Sherlock begged suddenly, his voice high with panic. "I can't go, I can't!" He didn't want to go for an X-ray. They would ask him about the first break, he was sure they would, ask him how it happened. It was written on his record that he hadn't said anything last time, not to the doctors, not to his mother, not to anyone. He brought he knees up to his chest, his arm now sandwiched between the pillow and his body but he didn't feel the pain it caused.

"Sherlock, you need to go to the hospital," instructed John, a strange sternness in his voice. It was the same strange strictness that his mother had used when she had tried to take him to the hospital all those years ago. She had asked nicely at first, just after Mycroft pointed out his discovery at the dinner table, knowing how quickly her youngest son's moods could turn. When he had refused Mr Holmes had tried to pick up his son to carry him to the car whether he liked it or not. He had not expected the little eight year old child to fly into a panic-fuelled rage. Sherlock had kicked and screamed, fighting his way away from his parents and running to his room, locking himself in. It was Mycroft who had picked the lock and calmed his screaming brother enough to allow himself to be taken to the hospital for treatment on his now twisted arm.

Sherlock shuddered at the memory, pressing his eyes onto his knees in desperation. Why all these memories? Why were they released? He had locked them away at the back of his Mind Palace all those years ago and they had been fine until now, hadn't they? They had never disturbed his life before, so why now? Inside he knew why, it was obvious, but admitting it was weakness.

"Sherlock?"

It was John again, he sounded worried now, just like Mycroft had. No, no, no, don't think like that! Forget it, push it away! But John was still calling, asking if he was okay, saying he was sorry for upsetting him. It was too similar. With a roar of frustration Sherlock leapt from the sofa, sending the pillow flying and making John jump back in surprise. He stumbled from the lounge, into his bedroom, slamming the doors behind him making the ornaments rattle on their shelves.

John sat on the floor, too stunned to move, listening to the thuds and shatterings from Sherlock's room. There was something wrong, dangerously wrong, and John knew he couldn't fix by himself. With shaking hands he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone Harry had given him all those months ago. He flicked through his contacts, coming to rest on the one which he knew he needed but hardly dared to call. Sherlock would be angry if he did but there was no way he could be left as he was. Knowing there was no other option he pressed the green button.

The dial tone sounded loudly as he raised the phone to his ear, dampening the smashes and thumps. The call answered on the second ring and a cool, collected man sounded in his ear, asking what was wrong.

"Mycroft," John whispered down the phone, interrupting the man. He took a deep breath, wondering how much he would regret this later. "I think something is wrong with Sherlock" he admitted quietly. The phone was silent for a second, as though the man was deciding what to do. Then he spoke again.

"I'll be right over," he said, the customary coolness gone from his voice.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The phone went dead, leaving only a quiet buzzing to fill his mind. Slowly John lowered the phone from his ear, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. He felt weak and shaky, as if all the energy had been zapped from his body. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, using the sofa for support, all the while wondering what he should do. Talking to Sherlock appeared out of the question judging by the crashing that still radiated from the detectives bedroom. That seemed the only option though; he needed to calm his friend down before he could hurt himself further.

Another loud thud shook the flat and startled John from his thoughts, sparking him into action. He hurried across the room and into the hall, skidding to a stop outside the detective's door, listening to the sudden unfolding silence from within. For some reason the silence scared him more than the thuds and crashes, at least they had been a sign that his friend was still alive. He drew in a breath before knocking attentively on the detective's door, hoping with all his heart that he would get a reply. There was none.

John knocked again, calling to Sherlock quietly, keeping his voice calm and comforting so as not to startle his friend. There was still nothing, not a reply, not a yell, not a sound. Worry struck John, sending horrid images into his mind's eye. He pushed them back, letting his medical knowledge flood his thoughts, trying to detach himself from the situation. He knew bursting into Sherlock's room could cause more damage than good but his friend was not responding to his calls and he wasn't going to take any chances. He shut his eyes, mentally preparing himself for whatever he might find, and pushed open the door.

The room was a mess from what John could see from the light of the door, the bed upturned and leaning against the wall, the wardrobe lying on its front, one of its doors pulled from the hinges and the contents thrown around the room. The wooden chest was on its side, two of its draws lying on the floor and another broken, the front hanging off at an angle. The periodic table had been removed from the wall and was now torn on the floor, its frame smashed, the glass glinting in the light from the hall.

"Sherlock?" asked John quietly, when he was unable to see his friend in the cluttered and dark room. He listened carefully for a reply, and was disappointed but unsurprised when there wasn't one. Silently he crept further into the room, leaving the door open to let in some light.

Sherlock was sitting in the corner of the room, hiding behind the remains of the bed. He had his arms clasped around his legs, his chin resting on his knees, a look of terror on his pale face. John slowly knelt before his friend, not wanting to startle him but Sherlock didn't appear to be aware of his presence at all. He was looking straight ahead, his eyes staring unseeingly and wide with fear. His lips were moving slightly, as if he was speaking, but no sound came out. John's glance drifted from Sherlock's face to the wrist that was still clamped around his legs.

John noted that the left hand was holding tight to the right forearm, just below the elbow, presumably to keep his arms in place. The right arm was pressed tightly to his legs too but the hand was limp, the fingers curled and unresponsive. Sherlock's wrist was no longer straight either, his hand hanging at a noticeably unnatural angle. John swore under his breath, knowing that he needed to treat Sherlock soon, to straighten the hand, to reline the bones and straighten the blood vessels.

"Sherlock?" he asked again, putting a hand on his friend's upper-arm, trying to pull him from trance. It had little effect though, only causing Sherlock's already erratic breathing to speed further. He swallowed hard, unsure or what to do, not wanting to startle the detective further or send him into another blind panic.

They sat like that for a while, John not wanting to move and Sherlock unable to. Suddenly the light levels in the room dropped further, sending the room into near pitch blackness. John looked up, puzzled, until his eyes came to rest on the neatly dressed figure of Mycroft Holmes in the doorway. Without saying a word the elder Holmes brother crossed the room and knelt next to John on the floor. He studied his baby brother closely, taking in the unseeing eyes, the slightly moving lips and the broken wrist in one careful glance.

He leant forwards slightly, resting his hands rest calmly on Sherlock's shoulders. He lowered his head, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes. "Sherlock", He whispered, his voice barely audible even in the silent room. "Sherlock, listen to me, you're safe now." Sherlock didn't appear to notice his brother or the comments until suddenly, with a relived exhale from Mycroft, his eyes slid shut and he collapsed sideways into his brothers arms.

Sherlock ran from the living room, feeling the unwanted emotions building inside of him, needing to escape. His room was quiet and peaceful but it didn't help to calm his mind, the memories kept coming. Of the boys at school, his parents, his teachers, all yelling, telling him he was a freak. Because that was what he was, a freak, a nobody, nothing worth caring for, and he knew it. The anger and fear was building inside him as the comments whirled in his head, desperate to escape.

He slammed the door behind him, leaving the room in near darkness to try and calm his mind. He thundered round the room, trying to take out his anger and emotions by smashing and destroying, by physical exertion. He could feel the bones in his arm grinding dangerously but there was no pain, only the anger and frustration that coursed through his body. He knew that he needed to calm himself, banish the emotions and memories to the Mind Palace before he was forced there himself. It was a defensive side he had learnt all those years ago at school, to shut himself away from the bullies and the pain, keeping his precious brain safe and his body in a trance-like state.

But now he didn't want to go to his Mind Palace however he knew that it was coming, that he was unable to keep away. It was normally his place of calm, a haven of sorts in his childhood where he could lock away his memories and feelings and shut himself away from his body. But now the memories were free and swirling in his brain, the good the bad, the painful, all mixed together in a thundering mass of emotion. It wouldn't be safe in his Mind Palace now, he would be trapped, unable to move or speak, unable to free himself from the torment as he was locked inside his head.

He tried to calm himself, leaning against the wall in the corner of the room, but his senses were already dulling, the room blurring, until his legs were too week to stand and he sunk to the ground, pulling his arms around his legs, trying to hold himself together. There was a knock at the door, a voice calling to him, but he didn't hear it, he was too far gone, already trapped inside his Mind Palace and unable to get free, back to his body and his sanity that resided there.

Suddenly there was a hand, a hand on his shoulder, he could feel it there, just faintly at the back of his mind, a nagging pull dragging him back to his body, it was weak though, very weak, too weak to do anything, too weak to pull him from his Mind Palace and end the nightmare. He didn't know how long he was there, wishing the hand could be stronger to save him from his torment but eventually something changed, another hand, a pair of hands, one on each shoulder, grounding him to his body and reality. There was a voice, too far away to make sense, merely just an echo in his mind, the words an indistinguishable muddle.

Then the voice came again, closer this time, close enough for Sherlock to tell whose it was. It was Mycroft's, his brother's voice, the voice that always came to pull him free from the overwhelming tortures of his mind. He followed the voice with all his will, needing desperately to free himself, to return to the safety of his body, to Mycroft. Slowly his senses returned, the sounds of the room, the breathing of his brother and someone else, the throbbing pain in his arm, the weight of his head on his knees. Gradually he returned to his body, his mind back where it belonged, and his eyes slid shut, his face relaxing in upmost exhaustion. He could feel his body drooping, the muscles going limp and someone moving him slightly, tipping him back until his head rested on their chest. He was tired, so tired, he just wanted to sleep and that was fine, perfectly fine, because he was safe, because Mycroft had saved him again.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The bedroom was quiet, only the gentle breathing of the three men to break the silence. Mycroft was sitting in the corner of the room his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed over at the ankles. Sherlock had flopped over sideways his head now resting on his brother's chest, his eyes shut and his face expressionless as he slept. He looked exhausted, his entire body slack, his breathing shallow and calm, so unlike the panicked gasps it had been mere minutes before. John was still kneeling on the floor in front of his friend, confusion and fear swimming in his mind. He didn't know what had happened, it wasn't something he had ever seen or heard of before. Whatever it was worried him though, just the thought of Sherlock sitting on the floor in his trance with that look of utter terror on his face sent shivers down his spine. It was Mycroft who finally broke the silence.

"John," he asked, not speaking much quieter than normal despite the fact his brother was asleep on his lap. "I need you to help me carry him to the sofa, his bed's not exactly suitable for sleeping in now, is it?"

John glanced to his left, looking unnecessarily at the slumped mattress and the broken wood that had one been Sherlock's large bed. Then his thoughts returned to his sleeping friend, still curled up against the chest of his brother. John knew how much of a light sleeper his friend was so moving him seamed a stupid idea, really, considering he had just fallen asleep. He also knew how easily panicked people could become after they were suddenly moved in their sleep if they awoke, and after Sherlock had had such a traumatic time….

"We shouldn't move him," he said in his normally stern yet reasonable doctor's voice. He could tell Mycroft was staring at him but he continued anyway, promising he would not be intimidated by the elder Holmes brother. "He could easily awake and panic and I don't want him hurting himself further. He will have enough problems with his wrist any-"

"John, he won't wake," Interrupted Mycroft, obviously impatient with John's medical comments.

At this John glanced up at the elder Holmes brother, wondering what he could have meant by the comment. He obviously knew something that John didn't. And by the way he had reacted when he had first seen his brother made John sure that this had happened before, probably many times too. Eventually he nodded, knowing in all honesty that Mycroft would be right and Sherlock would not wake.

Reluctantly, John shuffled forwards so that he was kneeling right beside Mycroft and, on the count of three, lifted Sherlock's upper body so that the elder Holmes son could kneel up, holding his brother under the arm pits and raising him into a semi-sitting position. John couldn't help but think that he looked like an oversized rag doll, his chin dropping down onto his chest, his body slumped and his arms trailing on the floor beside him. The right one was still awkwardly positioned but thankfully no bones were protruding through the skin. John thought for a second then bent back down and gently lifted the injured arm and rested it on the detective's lap.

"Thank you, John," Said Mycroft, his bold voice sounding even stronger in the near-silent room. John nodded in reply but said nothing, simply bending down and positioning himself beside Sherlock's knees, getting ready to lift. With another quiet count of 'three, two, one' the two men staggered to their feet, the lanky detective held between them.

Carrying Sherlock from his bedroom to the livingroom was harder than John had originally thought considering the detective hardly ate and they were going very far anyway, although, the fact that Sherlock had destroyed his room did not help. As they turned into the doorway of the lounge the detective's injured arm had fallen from his lap and ended swinging beneath his limp body as they walked. It did complicate things as they had lowered him onto the long sofa, trying desperately not to trap the limb beneath him.

Eventually Sherlock was lying on the sofa with his head on a pillow and his left arm resting on his stomach. Mycroft had helped to move the coffee table next to the sofa, leaving the papers and empty tea-stained mugs on the floor, so Sherlock's right arm could be propped up on a cushion on the coffee table to keep it out of harm's way. John was kneeling next to the sofa examining the limb thoroughly whilst Mycroft sat in John's chair with his laptop perched on his legs. John felt his anger in Mycroft rise; did he even care about his brother at all?

With a huff of annoyance John turned back to his friend who was still lying unconscious on the sofa. He had already taken Sherlock's pulse and was pleased to find it strong and regular and his breathing had returned to a much more natural rhythm. The right hand concerned him greatly and he knew he needed to straighten the bones but was reluctant to do it whilst Sherlock was asleep. The circulation appeared to be fine in his fingers anyway; John would just have to monitor that carefully to make sure it stayed that way.

John sat down on the floor, leaning back against the sofa. He wanted to stay near Sherlock and, anyway, Mycroft was sitting in his chair. It was then he noticed how tired and hungry he was. He had been at the surgery all that day and he hadn't had dinner yet, not that it was high on his list of priorities; he was too worried to eat. None of what had happened made any sense either. What had scared Sherlock so much about hospitals and what had happened to him in his bedroom? It was obvious Mycroft knew what had happened, so why wouldn't he tell?

"John, what has sherlock told you about his childhood?" Asked Mycroft suddenly, making John wonder if he and Sherlock could actually read minds.

"Um, nothing really. We don't really talk about that kind of stuff," Mumbled John, slightly embarresed by the fact he knew nothing about his friend's past, bar the fact that drugs had somehow been involved.

"No, but I'm sure he knows a lot more about you than you realise."

"Probably. Where is this going?" asked John, slightly confused by Mycroft's continuous comments.

"It's time you were told, we don't want any more upsets, do we now?" Said Mycroft, a smirk spreading across his face. John felt his hands ball into fists then forced himself to relax; he was beginning to see why Sherlock didn't get on with his brother.

Mycroft looked back at the laptop perched on his lap, clicked a few times and then turned in around so that John could see the screen from his seat on the floor.

On the laptop screen was a photograph of a tiny baby with a mess of curly brown fluff on his head. He had alabaster skin and his silver eyes sparkled as he stared at the camera or, more likely, the person holding the camera. He was wearing a plain white baby grow as he lay in an expensive looking Moses basket. John had no experience with babies but could tell that the child in the photo could only have been a week or so old.

"Is that?" he asked, glancing up at Mycroft in surprise.

"Yes, Sherlock William Holmes, two weeks old exactly,"

The picture on the computer screen changed, now showing a one-year Sherlock standing in a garden. He had a wooden sward in one hand and his other was balled up into a fist, rubbing at his closed eyes. He looked tired, ready for a nap, but there was a faint smile on his pink lips.

"He looks so happy," sighed John, forgetting his embarrassment from sitting on the floor whilst having a conversation with the 'British Government'.

"I know," said Mycroft, a hint of sadness in his normally cold tone. He clicked again and the photo changed.

The next six of pictures were similar to the first, showing a happy Sherlock in various stages of his young childhood. The last picture, and John's favourite, was one of Sherlock when he was six. He was wearing his school uniform: little grey shorts with long grey socks, a white shirt, a navy, yellow and green striped tie, a navy jumper and a green woollen blazer on top. He was holding a tiny violin in one hand and a bow to match in the other and he was grinning widely, his hair flopping into his eyes. He was missing a tooth but John thought it looked cute and added to the childish innocence in the picture.

"That's the last photo to be taken before Sherlock started Prepatory School," Said Mycroft, a strange hint of regret in his voice.

John glanced up, wondering what the elder Holmes brother had meant by that comment.

"He changed after that, about the second week into his first term. He became quieter, subdued, stopped playing his violin as much. After half term he stopped talking, just sat in his room all day, reading. Other times he would go to his Mind Palace, he could stay there for hours, even days," explained Mycroft, shutting his laptop with a snap. "Has Sherlock ever spoken to you about his Mind Palace?"

"No," John admitted, feeling even more embarrassed as it was revealed how little he knew about his friend.

"Sherlock's Mind Palace is the filing system in his brain, where he stores everything from knowledge to his memories," explained Mycroft, "I don't really know much about it, Sherlock never would tell," he confessed, sighing slightly.

"I think he sorted his memories there, though," he added after a moment's silence. "He hid the unpleasant ones, the painful ones especially. He locked them away so they couldn't bother him again,"

"His memories?" asked John, raising his eyebrows as images of memory bubbles and filing cabinets filled his mind's eye.

"Hmm, yes," Muttered Mycroft approvingly. "Sherlock created himself a haven, a place to escape to in his mind, away from all the torment at school. He used to go there when the world became too much. It left his body in a trance-like state, no brain to control it,"

"So, today? That was his Mind Palace?" asked John slowly, still trying to make sense of what had happened.

"Mmm, not quite," admitted Mycroft, his eyebrows knitting together slightly, "I think that was where he tried to go, but something went wrong and the memories he had locked away were freed,"

John thought for a moment, about the minutes before Sherlock had ran to his room, the moments when John had first examined his broken wrist. "It was to do with his wrist, wasn't it?" asked John quietly. "He panicked when I tried to take him to the hospital,"

"Yes, John, I believe so," said Mycroft grimly, "You see, when Sherlock was seven he broke his wrist. It was the same one. We tried to take him to the hospital but he panicked, much like what he did tonight. The X-Ray showed his arm had been twisted behind his back but he had said nothing. I'm sure you have seen the scars where they pinned the bone, John. I think that what happened tonight reminded him too much of that first break and the memory freed itself, pulling the others with it."

There was more silence, both John and Mycroft considering what had been said. This time it was John who broke the silence, asking the question that had been swirling in his brain since Mycroft had first mentioned it.

"So what did happen, when he first broke it?" he asked reluctantly, mentally preparing himself for the worst.

"Nobody knows," admitted Mycroft eventually, the regret obvious in his normally icy tone. He closed his eyes, letting his head droop, his face a mixture of sadness and despair and, for the first time since he had met the elder Holmes brother, John found himself believing that Mycroft actually cared for his baby brother.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The living room was quiet, it had lapsed into silence nearly an hour ago. Mycroft had re-opened his laptop some time ago and was still tapping away on it, evidently more interested in his governmental duties than in his little brother. John was still sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa so that he could check Sherlock's pulse and the circulation in his hand at regular intervals. He really ought to take a cushion from the sofa to sit on as his bum had gone numb quite a while ago and his feet were heading the same way, a result of sitting cross-legged for too long. He hadn't had anything to do in that time but he found his mind had been perfectly occupied with everything that Mycroft had said and the worry he had for his friend.

When the feeling had completely vanished from his feet he decided it was really time to get up, if it was only to restore the circulation to his legs. With a slight huff he pushed himself onto his knees and turned back around to look at the still unconscious face of his friend. Yet again he checked Sherlock's wrist and was relieved to feel the slow, strong pulse beneath his fingertips. He sighed heavily, wondering when his friend would awake and he could tend to his fractured wrist, as he heaved himself to his feet, leaning against the arm of the sofa until the inevitable pins-and-needles left his legs.

He went to the kitchen, his aim on making himself and Mycroft a cup of tea to help the long wait and flicked the switch on the kettle, watching it light up the familiar blue as the bubbles started to form inside it. He stayed in the small, cluttered kitchen as the water boiled, pleased to be out of Mycroft's imposing stare but still not wanting to leave his friend for too long. He made the tea as quickly as he could before he carried the steaming mugs back to the lounge and handing one to Mycroft. He sipped the other as he stood beside the Sherlock's head on the sofa, gently stroking the dark curls as he sipped the tea.

It couldn't have been more than a few seconds later when a familiar, soft groan came from the sofa and Sherlock turned his head slightly, pushing it into John's hand. He groaned again, this one lower, more pained as he rolled onto his side slightly, lifting his left hand lazily towards his head to rub his eyes. John could feet Mycroft watching from the chair and hear the gentle click of the laptop as he shut the lid, his attention focused now only on his younger brother. Sherlock let his arm fall limp again, resting it on his chest as his face screwed up slightly from the pain that was slowly becoming more apparent to his sluggish brain. He let out a small whimper and screwed his face up tighter as he tried to move his right arm towards his body, obviously unsure what to do with it and John felt his heart leap in sympathy for his friend.

Sherlock rolled fully onto his side and pulled his right arm from the table, curling his body around it, his knees up to his chest. He lifted his head slightly, his eyes still shut then let out a grunt as he flopped his head back onto the cushion, his dark curls falling over his eyes as he nuzzled into the pillow. John continued to run his fingers through his friends thick hair in what he hoped was a comforting way, as one would do with a small child. Sherlock appeared to like this as he sighed loudly and let his body relax into John's touch as he drifted back into the emptiness of sleep.

Mycroft relaxed visibly along with his little brother, leaning back into his chair and letting the mug of tea fall to rest on his lap. Then, in true Mycroft style, he reached back down for his laptop, flipping the lid open again in one fluid movement. John stayed by the arm of the sofa, his fingers still entwined in Sherlock's soft curls, not wanting to move to soon and awaken the sleeping man. He studied Sherlock's face carefully, watching as his eyes flittered from side to side behind their lavender lids as he slept. His face was puckered slightly, as though in confusion and there was a shallow scratch on the perfect alabaster skin of his cheek, probably from when he had destroyed his bedroom.

When he was sure his friend was really asleep John carefully freed his hand from Sherlock's unruly hair, letting it flop gently onto the pillow. Gently he crept back around the sofa, once again faced with the prospect of sitting on the floor as he was unwilling to sit in Sherlock's chair and his was still occupied by Mycroft. Eventually he simply took the cushion from the other end on the sofa and dropped it onto the floor. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was better than just the wooden floor he had been sitting on before. He leaned back against the sofa, his legs outstretched and the mug of tea still clutched in his hand and shut his eyes, tired from his day at work, Sherlock, and the fact he had eaten very little that day. The mug of tea slowly drooped to his lap and his head dropped to his shoulder as the doctor's exhaustion finally caught up with him.

Mycroft cleared his throat and John jumped forward, startled by the sound and annoyed at the fact he had momentarily drifted off. The clock on the wall told him that he had only been out for ten minutes, quarter of an hour at the most and he sighed in relief. He shifted slightly on his pillow, reminding himself of the full mug still in his hands and he took a sip, desperate for the caffeine to keep him awake. He grimaced in disgust when he realised that it was cold but swallowed it quickly, setting the mug down on the table where Sherlock's arm had once lay. He could hear the calm breathing from the sofa, reminding him that he really ought to check Sherlock's wrist again as it had been moved since his last check and he did not want to take any chances with something to important.

He knelt up once again, pushing the coffee table away from the sofa so that he could get closer to the arm Sherlock now had curled up to his body. He was lying on it slightly, the hand up next to his face and the fingers softly brushing the pale skin of his cheek. The wrist still looked bent but no more so than before and John was pleased to notice the pleasant pinkness in Sherlock's fingers, showing the still present blood was keeping them healthy. John could have sighed in relief and gently reached out to touch his wrist, wanting to check the pulse just to be sure.

Sherlock visibly flinched as John's hand came to rest on his arm. His eyes snapped open as he jolted backwards, away from the touch, sitting up sharply and leaning heavily on his broken wrist. He let out a yelp and pulled his arm up, falling slightly to the right as his support vanished. He leaned back against the arm of the sofa, his legs curled up to his chest, his eyes shut and his breathing heavy, his face scrunched up from the pain.

John jumped backwards, startled by his friends outburst and he heard the sharp snap of the laptop lid as Mycroft sat upright, actually surprised and concerned by the yell from his little brother. The room was quiet, the only sounds the breathing of the three men, John's panicked, Mycroft's anticipating, and Sherlock's little more than a his as he clamped his teeth shut.

Eventually, Sherlock's breathing slowed and he drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly as he opened his eyes. They searched the room, not really focusing on anything before they finally came to rest on John. Sherlock didn't say anything, his eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion as he tried to work out what had happened. John held his breath as he waited, trying to anticipate Sherlock's reaction.

"John," he mumbled finally, his voice barely more than a whisper as he unfurled his legs, and sat upright so that he could face his friend.

"Yeah," John agreed, still unsure what state of mind Sherlock was really in. There was another long silence, John not wanting to rush his friend and Mycroft just watching from his armchair.

"I'm okay, just so you know," said Sherlock eventually, his voice stronger now, more like its usual tone and John nearly sighed in relief. He nodded slowly then pushed himself up from the floor, sitting down on the coffee table, still watching Sherlock carefully. He actually did look to be okay and John had to resist the urge to ask Sherlock what he could remember from the evening before. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the window, where the stars glistened in the pink sky, barely visible through the light pollution which made the sky glow a pinkish red behind the buildings.

"I don't remember it, if that's what you're wondering," he continued, surprising John with his uncanny ability to read minds yet again. The doctor could only nod numbly, entirely unsure of what to say to his friend, not wanting to upset him again but not wanting to be too smothering either.

"That's, um, good," he replied eventually, earning himself a slight chuckle from Sherlock as he watched his friend squirm. "Well, not good, but um…" he continued, realising his mistake and then trailing off as his brain failed to supply words to his mouth. He looked down at his hands in his lap and then across at Sherlock's arm that was held limply in his lap, the hand still and alarmingly pale in the dim room.

"You, need to check it again, don't you?" asked the detective, his voice once again blank of emotion as he followed his friend's gaze. He swallowed heavily but let no signs of emotions onto his face. John nodded slowly but didn't move, still dumbfounded by Sherlock's ability to simply carry on. Secretly John knew it couldn't be good, that Sherlock could just forget everything that had happened again, but he tried not to think about it.

Eventually he stood, crossing the room to turn up the lights and fetch his medical kit from his bedroom, more out of habit than anything. Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa when he got back, his arm one again propped up on a cushion on his lap and his sleeve rolled up past his elbow. He was staring across the room at Mycroft, who had opened his laptop and appeared to be completely ignoring his little brother. John wondered if they had argued about something but he had heard no voices at all and had been gone from the room for little over a minute. With a shake of his head he decided to ignore the whole situation with the Holmes brothers and sat back on the table, letting his doctoring instinct take over again.

He studied the arm, trying to spot any differences from the last time he had done this. It was at a slightly different angle, probably from when the detective had leant on it in his startled panic, and there was a significant change in the colour of his ghostly finger tips. He swallowed and rested his fingers gently on Sherlock's wrist, ignoring the involuntary flinch from his patient when their skin touched, and waited for the familiar pulse to jump under his fingers. Thankfully it was still there, but it was still so very much weaker than it should have been.

"Can you feel that?" asked John suddenly, digging his fingernail slightly into the end of Sherlock's middle finger. The detective swallowed heavily and glanced up at his friend, a panicked look on his normally emotionless face. He shook his head slightly and John could have sworn he heard a sharp intake of breath from the Holmes brother behind him. Sherlock's breathing sped again as the panic and fear rose inside him. He stared at his arm for a second, his jaw tight.

"It might be fine," John said calmly, seeing the true extent of the problem settle itself on his friend. "I need to straighten it though," he added, "To get the blood flowing properly, I mean." Sherlock looked up sharply, his breathing still fast with fear. He had always said that his body was just transport, but John knew what the loss of the function of his leading hand would mean to him. Slowly he nodded, knowing it would be the only way. John dipped his head back at his friend and tried to give him a hopeful smile before turning behind him to Mycroft and letting his doctoring knowledge take control.

"Mycroft, I need you to hold his arm sill, just below the elbow," John ordered, actually surprised when the elder Holmes brother nodded silently and crossed the room to sit next to his brother on the sofa, leaving his laptop on the chair on the way. He looked strangely nervous when he saw his brother's arm, shocked by the strange angle at which the wrist was bent and, unknown to John, reminded of the other time he had seen his little brother's arm in such a state. Slowly he rested his hands just below his brother's elbow and waited for instructions. Sherlock tensed a little as his brother touched his arm and closed his eyes tightly. His face was pale, John noticed, but from the pain or the worry he didn't know.

"You know this will hurt," said John carefully, just as a warning more than anything. Sherlock nodded slowly, the fear evident in his eyes as he knew there was no point in trying to hide it now.

John felt the arm, trying to determine exactly where the bones and pins now were. He needed to pull the bones into a more natural position without disturbing the metal plates too much. Sherlock whimpered slightly as John gripped his arm, placing his hands as he had been taught. He looked up at the pale and terrified face of his friend and met his eyes. John couldn't help but feel sorry for his friend as he knew the pain now was nothing compared to what he would feel when the bone was pulled back to the correct position.

"You ready?" he asked eventually, not wanting nor needing to say more. Sherlock nodded again, just a shaky bob of the head, saying he was ready. John caught his friend's eyes once again before he tightened his grip and pulled the bones back into place.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sherlock sat on the sofa, feeling John's hands closing around his delicate wrist. He knew that this needed to be done, the bones to be realigned, if wanted any chance of recovering proper function in his hand. It had honestly terrified him when he had seen John's nail prodding into the tip of his ghostly finger, seen the slight dip in his skin but feel nothing at all.

He was also terrified by the fact that he could remember nothing of the past few days. Well, there were snippets of things floating freely in his mind, of running, falling, a bath of cold water, texting on the sofa, John's worried expression, but nothing to tell him what had happened. He remembered waking, that hand on his wrist that had startled him, making him leap away in fear and damage his arm further.

Mycroft's presence in the room didn't help either. Sherlock knew his brother never came to Baker street without a good reason yet he was sitting on the sofa, helping the doctor to straighten the wrist. There was dust on his trousers too, dust that could only have come from Sherlock's bedroom floor and the bags under his eyes showed he had been in the flat all night. But what could possibly have been so important?

What really puzzled Sherlock was why he had been unconscious on the sofa in the first place. It was obviously the reason John had been so cautious when he had first awoken and probably the reason Mycroft was in the flat too. At first Sherlock had suspected a head injury of sorts, which would defiantly have tied in with the broken wrist but it didn't seem right. After all, there wasn't a bump on his head and he was missing the concussion which would accompany a hit strong enough to knock a person out. Anyway, he seriously doubted John would let him sleep after being unconscious.

Sherlock had fainted from not eating before, so that had also crossed his mind, but it was quickly proved wrong by the lack of weakness and light-headedness. Presides, it wasn't as if Mycroft would come for something as trivial as that. The only other option his brain could come up with was a fit of some sort which would explain Mycroft's presence more than other two options but still didn't fit in with his lack of memories.

But now he had other things to worry about. He had seen John's look of worry and fear when there had been no feeling and a limited pulse in his hand, and that was worse, much worse than a few missing memories. He had sat still on the sofa, trying to block out the pain and the worry and the fear as John's voice filled the room, talking; probably to Mycroft.

Then there was a new weight joining him on the sofa, more body warmth pressed to his own thin shirt. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he and Mycroft had actually touched each other, probably during his withdrawal when he had needed help just to stagger to the toilet.

Suddenly there were hands, clasped around his arm, just below his elbow. They were Mycroft's hands but for some reason it took all of Sherlock's resolve to keep his arm still, to stop himself from tearing it away. He closed his eyes, clenching them tight as he tried to calm his racing heart and rationalize his mind. He was safe, he knew he was safe, so why did his instincts keep telling him to run?

"You know this will hurt?" asked John suddenly, his voice cutting through the clouding fear in Sherlock's mind. His eyes flashed open, focusing on his friend's face, seeing the concern hidden behind the calm doctor exterior. Sherlock nodded, a slow shaky dip of his head, knowing he needed this, there was no other option. He could still feel Mycroft beside him, his brother's fears obvious in the juddering of his breaths, the racing of his heart.

Then John's hands were on his arm, skimming over the skin, probing gently at the bone beneath, sending flicks of electrified pain up his arm, filling his mind. Suddenly the hands tightened, gripping the bones and muscles firmly, ready to pull at the arm. Sherlock whimpered, unable stop himself as the pain flared up and down his arm, sizzling in his brain. He tried to steady himself, to ignore the buzzing pain as he looked back up at John, their eyes meeting for a second.

"You ready?" asked John quietly, his voice not nearly as steady as his hands. Sherlock nodded again, his heart in his throat as he felt the hands shuffling on his wrist. He could feel Mycroft's hands too, gripping hard on his arm, holding him still, not letting him get away. He knew he was safe, that neither John nor Mycroft would hurt him but he knew someone had before. But it was still there, the feeling of the hands around his wrist, clasped tight and ready to pull, ready to forcefully move his bones back into place. And Sherlock hated it, using all his mental strength to stop himself from pulling the arm away and fleeing his captors, never letting them near him again. He glanced up at John, their eyes meeting one last time, before John drew in a breath and pulled on the arm.

Sherlock screamed, a high pitched, terrified yell of pain as he felt the bones in his arm pulled back into place. He clasped the arm to his chest, out of the grasp of his captors as the memories flooded back. The feeling of the hands on his arm, pulling it roughly behind his back, the grip getting tighter and tighter until the bones gave way to the pressure. The boys were laughing, jeering as he tried not to cry, determined not to show them weakness. Then the bell had rung and break was over, the boys had run, knowing that he wouldn't tell, that the freak didn't speak any more.

But those boys had been right; he was a freak, a stupid little freak that nobody cared about. Nobody had noticed his arm was hurt, not the teachers, not Mummy, not Father, not even the nanny that put him to bed at night. Nobody noticed until Mycroft did at supper three nights later, the only person who had cared. Mummy had tried to take him to the hospital, Farther had tried to carry him there later but he had panicked, he had kicked and screamed until he was dropped, falling hard onto the hard oak floor. He had run to his room, needing to get away, to be alone, to go to his Mind Palace and free himself from them all.

Mycroft had broken into his room eventually, using his lock-picking kit from last Christmas. He had sat on the bed, rocking his brother until he had stopped shaking and his mind had returned to his body. They had gone to the hospital then, for X-rays and scans followed by questions, so many questions, from the doctors and nurses and Mummy and Father and Mycroft, all wanting to know what had happened, how Sherlock had broken his wrist.


	7. Chapter 7

****Chapter 7

John gasped as Sherlock let out a horrifying shriek and the pale arm was wrenched from his grip. The detective scrambled away, pushing himself over the arm of the sofa in his panic. He landed on the wooden floor with a thud but was on his feet again quicker than humanly possible, stumbling backwards until his back hit the bookshelf behind him with a soft thump. He stood stock still, both hands pressed flat against the bookshelf, and his shoulders rising and falling in sharp jolts as he breathed. His open eyes were fearful but totally unfocused, staring off at something deep inside his mind.

John had seen all this before and, as an Army Medic, he knew the symptoms of a flashback. They were normally caused by past traumatic experiences, which made them a common problem for soldiers, and were often triggered by situations or movements at the time. This worried John, Sherlock had obviously reacted to the pulling on his arm and he didn't want to think of what that could mean for his best friend's past.

His attention was drawn back to the room by a sudden gasp from Sherlock as he drew his arms up to his chest his left hand clasped around his right wrist. He screwed his eyes tightly, his face crumpling as if in pain as a single tear made a salty track down his cheek. A soft whimper left his lips and he shuffled back again as if in fright, the bookshelf clunking against the wall with the pressure. His mouth opened silently, revealing his perfectly white teeth and he paused for a second before uttering a single word.

Mycroft threw himself from the sofa as the youngest Holmes called his childhood name, a word that he hadn't heard said aloud since before he had left for university. He tried to run forwards, desperate to get to the aid of his now trembling brother but a hand around his arm held him back. The grip wasn't strong and he could easily break it but as he turned to the army doctor beside him the message was clear; he was not to touch his brother. There had to be a reason, that much was obvious, but it did not stop the overwhelming feeling of helplessness when the younger man whimpered again, a barely audible plea escaping his lips.

John had treated flashback victims hundreds, even thousands of times before but this, this was different, this was Sherlock. He held onto the elder Holmes, at first to stop him running to his brother as that could just cause Sherlock to panic again, but then he held on just for moral support as his best friend begged to the imaginary tormenters inside his head. He felt Mycroft stiffen as Sherlock begged again, his voice filled with even more desperation than before, and was suddenly pleased of the grip that comforted them both.

Sherlock's breathing was speeding again, his shoulders moving in uneven juddery movements as more tears had followed the glistening trail down his cheeks. Both John and Mycroft held their breath, letting the room fill solely with Sherlock's own panicked gasps. John knew the man was hyperventilating, but there was nothing that he could do to stop it and to calm his friend without possibly harming him further. It was only a matter of time before the lack of oxygen in Sherlock's brain caught up with him and he staggered forward, sagging as his knees gave way beneath him.

The reactions in the room were instantaneous and the two men raced forwards, determined to catch the unconscious detective before he hit the ground. The distance was short but gravity was quicker and John only just managed to catch Sherlock's head before it collided with the wooden floor of their flat. He knelt beside the man and carefully rolled him onto his back, glad that his doctoring nature had not completely failed him.

As if on instinct he checked Sherlock's pulse before resting a hand over the younger man's heart, relaxing visibly when the strong, quick rhythm pounded beneath his palm. He nodded, more to himself than to anyone else and a fragment of the tension left his heart. Mycroft must have seen the nod as he dropped to his knees beside his brother's head and carefully moved aside the single dark curl that rested on his forehead. John let his eyes rest on Sherlock's pale face, thinking about what he had just witnessed as the yellowing light of the room glistened in the tears that clung to his best friend's lashes like a lifeline.

He glanced up at Mycroft, only noticing then that the elder Holmes had shut his eyes, a hand still running through his little brother's locks. Feeling somewhat embarrassed and self-conscious for the brief show of emotion from the normally cold British Government John tore his gaze away, letting it drop to the wooden floor and Sherlock's right hand that rested there. The hand was still pale, but was considerably pinker than the last time he had looked at it. With careful hands John picked it up, noticing as he did how much straighter the wrist was and the warmth he felt on his fingers as he searched for the pulse. He found it easily, resting his fingers over the artery and holding on to the thready beat much longer than necessary before gently resting it on his friend's chest.

John heard Mycroft's breathing jolt and he glimpsed back up at the elder Holmes brother. He still had his eyes shut but the hand had stopped moving in Sherlock's hair and his breathing was deeper than before, more measured, as if he were fighting to keep control of his emotions. He was shaking slightly too, just miniscule tremors that rippled through his body, hardly noticeable yet still clearly showing the fear and worry normally hidden behind the mask. John's eyes dropped back to his own hands, the left in particular, the hand which had shaken so fiercely when he had first returned from the war. The hand was steady now, they both were.

"Mycroft?" John asked softly, looking back up at the elder Holmes brother. His eyes snapped open almost instantly, only holding a look of surprise for a second before they grew cold and empty once more. John sighed mentally; he knew it could only last for so long anyway. Mycroft blinked once, twice, before pulling his hand free from where it had still been entwined in Sherlock's hair and pushing himself to his feet. He turned sharply on the spot and walked to the other side of the room where he rested his hands on the window ledge and gazed out, the streetlamps glowing orange in his eyes.

John felt his eyebrows furrow as he watched in confusion. He knew neither Holmes son believed in emotions and sentiment, although more so with Sherlock, but why try so hard to cover up the care the Mycroft was so obviously feeling, and for his baby brother of all people. The army medic sighed; he simply didn't understand it. His family had never been big on emotions but both he and Harry had cried at their mother's funeral and later at their father's when they were left with only each other as family. Maybe that was why Harry wanted them to stay in touch so much?

"John," began Mycroft suddenly and John ducked his head, realising he had been staring at the elder Holmes for quite some time. He looked down at his friend, embarrassed to have been caught in the act. The room filled with an uncomfortable silence, both men waiting for the other before Mycroft finally sighed and spoke again, his voice once more icy and professional.

"John, don't know what you think about my relationship with my brother but-" he cut off mid-sentence as Sherlock's breathing hitched and his eyebrows furrowing as if in confusion. He let out a soft groan and brought his left hand to his head, rubbing his forehead and eyes as if to rid himself of a headache.

Mycroft stood by the window watching his brother carefully, a cold, hard look in his eyes. He didn't come over to Sherlock as John had expected him to, choosing instead to watch from a distance. John sighed again mentally; this Holmes relationship was becoming more confusing by the minute.

He was distracted back to his friend when Sherlock groaned again and his eyelids slipped open. They closed again almost instantly and the detective dropped his left arm over his eyes, protecting them from the yellowy brightness in the room. He waited a couple of seconds before opening them again, gazing up at John through squinted eyes as he tried to deduce why he was on the floor.

"Ugh, this is becoming repetitive," moaned Sherlock mere seconds later as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position with a wince. John shuffled back slightly as he chuckled in relief, resting back on his haunches as he did so. He hadn't known what to expect, not after seeing different soldiers come back from flashbacks in various stages of mental health in the past. This was Sherlock though, brilliant, clever, amazing Sherlock. Of course he would be okay.

John glanced over at Mycroft, who raised his eyebrows in apparent amusement at his brother's comment, his arms now clasped behind his back and a faint smirk growing on his lips. It looked forced though, as if to push away the obvious worry he had held for his brother minutes before. John knew that the hands clamped behind Mycroft's back was probably just to hide they were still shaking, a habit he was guilty of himself when he had returned from the war.

Sherlock must have noticed his lingering gaze as he twisted his head around so as to look behind himself. The glance was short though, his head turning back to John with an eye-roll and a huff, obviously still not pleased of his brother's presence in the flat. Mycroft's eyebrows rose higher at his brother's obnoxious behaviour but he crossed the room unfazed, sitting back on the sofa his eyes still focused on the youngest Holmes as he sat on the floor.

Sherlock obviously disliked being below his brother as he quite suddenly pushed himself to his feet, swaying ever so slightly as he did so. John rushed after him, determined not to let his best friend fall again but his help was neither needed nor wanted by the detective who strode across the room in obvious annoyance and threw himself into his arm chair, albeit a little less vigorously than normal. With a slight wince he drew up his legs, folding in on himself until he sat curled in his chair, his left hand wrapped around his legs and his right cradled to his stomach. He leant his head back and shut his eyes, sighing deeply as he did so.

John stood motionless unsure of what to do. He couldn't sit down as his chair was still occupied by Mycroft's laptop and sitting next to the elder Holmes brother was just plain awkward. His eyes skimmed the room, carefully avoiding staring at Sherlock, a trait hated by the detective. Mycroft apparently didn't care about making his stares obvious and John was completely aware of Mycroft's eyes that bored into his back. He didn't look round, determined not to give in to the elder Holmes' intimidation.

Eventually he turned back to his friend, unable to avoid looking at him any longer without making it obvious. Sherlock was still sitting in almost the exact same pose he was in when John had looked away, with his legs curled up in front of him, his back straight and his right arm pinned between his stomach and knees. However, Sherlock was now holding his head up straight and his face was hardened with the pain that had now so obviously returned.

"Do you need anything?" he asked abruptly, his voice startlingly loud in the silent room. "For the pain, I mean," he added somewhat hesitantly, already knowing what the response would be. Sherlock looked round, a flash of confusion in his eyes before it was quickly replaced with the defiance Sherlock so often kept there whenever he was offered help.

"What? No, nothing. I'm fine," Sherlock mumbled hurriedly, before turning back to stare straight ahead. He shut his eyes, as if trying to block out the room and everybody in there. John knew this friend was trying to behave as his normal emotionless and stubborn self but was finding it near impossible to do; he had been in the exact same situation when he had returned from the war, the diagnosis of his PTSD fresh in the minds of family and friends alike.

Suddenly John felt the eyes behind him vanish and he turned to see that Mycroft had brought his phone from his pocket and was typing away furiously, the tiny buttons clicking under his fingers. He was pressing the 'backspace' key more often that would be considered normal. This left two options; either Mycroft was simply awful at typing –unlikely- or he was under a lot of pressure. John glanced up at the elder Holmes' forehead, noticing the wrinkles between his eyebrows. Defiantly stressed, but from whatever he was doing on his phone or from the problems in Baker street? He never could tell with Mycroft.

When he could finally bear the silence no longer he stumbled past the two men and into the kitchen, muttering something about tea as he went. It was a stupid excuse to leave the room and he knew it but the option of staying in there was gone. He flicked the button on the kettle and put a tea bag in each of the three mugs he pulled from the cupboard labelled 'for eating purposes only'. Sherlock had objected to this label, pointing out that nobody ate from a mug anyway.

He smiled sadly to himself as he leant against the worktop, watching at the blue bubbles danced inside the kettle. As much of a pain that Sherlock had always been around the flat or during life in general John hoped that wasn't all about to change. But if it was he knew he could accept that and he would help his friend get over whatever had happened to him during his childhood, no matter how long it took.

He glanced back into the living room, signing when he noticed Sherlock still had his eyes tight shut, his top teeth biting into his lower lip. Mycroft was just out of sight from where he stood but the tapping that filtered in from the silent room, only just audible over the kettle, was evidence enough of his presence.

John turned round, leaning back against the worktop with his head in his hands as the kettle boiled beside him, casing blue shadows around the small room. The shadows were dim and twisted by the lack of light just as they had been in Sherlock's room earlier that evening. He was a doctor, an army doctor, and he had seen difficult patients so many times before but none of that prepared him for what he had witnessed that night. He thought of Sherlock sitting in his curled-up ball of terror as he shook and muttered under his breath, his right arm broken and bent.

John was so glad when Mycroft had arrived and had saved his brother from his mind, knowing exactly what to do in a way John would never have guessed. He had explained everything too, shown him Sherlock's past and childhood, the grinning little boy with a missing front tooth he had once been. He had never seen love between the two brothers before, making it all the more difficult when he had held Mycroft back whilst his brother withered in the corner, tormented by the flashbacks of his past.

The kettle pinged, startling John from his thoughts as it turned itself off, the bubbles slowing in their darkened dance. He opened his eyes, trying to remember when he had shut them and turned back to his tea, pouring the water into the mugs. It was darker in the kitchen now that the kettle had lost its glow but John didn't care when he watched the browning water as it brewed.

Silently he retrieved the milk from the fridge, rationing out the dregs between the mugs. He added sugar, two spoons to Sherlock's and one to Mycroft's, stirring mindlessly for much longer than necessary until he could put off going back to the silent room no longer. He grabbed the mugs, two in his left hand and the others in his right, not caring when they clinked together, drips of the hot brown liquid running onto his hand.

He turned back towards the bright yellow glow of the living room, leaping back when he noticed Sherlock staring at him from the chair. The detective grinned slightly at John's reaction, but the doctor stood still, wondering how long his friend had been watching him as the sloshed tea dripped from his hands and onto the tiles below.

Eventually he sighed, half in annoyance for his friend and half in relief that the man was laughing again. He shuffled carefully forward, not wanting to spill ant more of the quickly diminishing tea and moved out into the living room. Mycroft had stopped texting, his hands still holding the phone but now gently resting in his lap. He looked confused, an expression that didn't suit him at all, as he studied his chuckling brother. John grinned as he carefully handed the elder Holmes a mug, ignoring the raised eyebrow he got in return.

He turned back to Sherlock who was still sitting in his chair although now his legs were crossed, his arms resting in his lap. His face was relaxed again, his gaze soft as he gently accepted the warm mug of tea from his friend. He took a sip, the mug held somewhat shakily in his left hand and the right resting on his crossed legs. John sighed slightly as left his mug on the floor then quickly darted back into the kitchen to rinse the drying tea from his hands.

He hurried back through, shaking his hands dry as he went. He scooped the tea up from the ground and took a large gulp, momentarily forgetting how hot it would be. He grimaced, glaring at his tea as he glanced around the room once again left without a seat. Eventually he simply moved to stand beside the fireplace as though examining the skull and the letters that were pinned there. He heard a slight hiss of pain behind him but didn't look around, knowing he needed to give Sherlock the space he wanted.

The room drifted into silence and John wandered over to the window gazing out at the first pink rays of sun as they claimed the sky. He glanced at his watch which confirmed it was nearly morning, a fact which didn't surprise him when he noticed how tired he was. He watched as the occasional cars drove below the window and a lone man with a dog meandered across the road.

"John, do you know where my phone is?" asked Sherlock suddenly, watching as his friend tore himself away from the window. He thought back, trying to remember when he had last seen the BlackBerry, scanning the room as if for inspiration as he did so.

"No," he replied eventually, crossing the room back to the fireplace where he sat down his now empty mug. "Last time I saw it was yesterday evening, when I was um, examining your arm" he spoke slowly, carefully, his reluctance to mention the incidence last night obvious in his tone as if he were worried what would happen if he spoke of it.

Sherlock looked down at his arm, the throbbing returning at full force now that his mind thought of it. He turned it over, watching as his limp fingers curled unresponsively, their feeling still cut off. He swallowed, the noise loud in his ears as he felt the prolonged gazes of both his brother and John as they watched him. He remembered falling now, when he had been on that case, and coming home to rest his arm in the bath of cold water in his desperation to keep it all a secret from John. He remembered being sat down on the sofa as John had examined the limb and then fragments of scenes later on but it was enough, he knew what had happened.

"Sherlock, you need to go to the hospital," said John eventually watching as Sherlock's head jolted up to look at him. He had been unwilling to break the brief moment of semi-normality in the flat but he was unable to ignore the fact that the longer the wrist was left untreated, the less likely a full recovery would be. Sherlock seemed to know this too as he only waited a couple of seconds before speaking.

"I know," he admitted quietly, looking up into the calm, worry-filled eyes of his friend.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

John visibly drooped in relief at Sherlock's words, a shaky laugh escaping his lips as he stumbled towards his chair, flopping into it as his legs gave way beneath him. He leant forwards, resting his head on his hands, suddenly exhausted. He felt as if the world had left his shoulders the moment Sherlock had admitted he needed the hospital. He knew it wasn't over though, that it was nowhere near over but it was a step in the right direction and a step that he was thankful for.

When he looked up Sherlock's blue-grey eyes caught onto his. The youngest Holmes was still sitting in his square green chair with his right arm rested in his lap but now with a strange mixture of confusion, worry and pain all mixed into one on his alabaster face. He was biting his lip too, the pearly white teeth digging into his dry bottom lip, although not hard enough to draw blood. It still worried John though, after all, Sherlock had never showed fearful emotions before.

Mycroft was also still sat in his chair but now the phone had dropped to his lap and his face had relaxed into a look of pure relief. It was strange, really, for John to see so much emotion from the normally _icy_ 'British Government', a man who could apparently kidnap without so much as a thought. But now his feelings were obvious, dragged back out into the open along with Sherlock's past.

The room had filled with silence again, but not the awkwardness of before, this time it was as it they were all simply waiting, although for what nobody knew. Sherlock's gaze had slipped back down to his lap and he seemed reluctant to make the first move, willing to accept he needed the hospital but not wanting to start the movement there himself. John didn't want to rush his friend, desperate not to pressure him into another panic attack or start another flash back. He knew it was up to him though, as Mycroft appeared to be watching the scene before him rather than actually participating in it. John figured it was probably the result of watching too much CCTV, seeing everything unfold before him but unable to do anything directly about it.

So eventually he stood, as calmly and normally as he could, rolling his shoulders to let his back click free as he normally would. Sherlock's gaze flickered up, startled by the sudden noise but he quickly returned it to his lap as the battle of emotions continued in his mind. Wordlessly John collected the three empty mugs from around the room and took them to the kitchen, feeling the burning gaze of Mycroft on his back again. Without a word he dumped the mugs on the worktop and turned on the hot tap, holding his hand under the water as it heated.

He let his mind wander as he waited, thinking back over the past night and to the fall three days ago that had started all of this mess in the first place. Sherlock had said it was just a sprain, he had lied, and for some reason that hurt. Then he hand kept it hidden, a strange proof of the lack of trust Sherlock had. John had always felt he was trusted by his friend, even on their first case together. After all, who wandered off with a serial killer leaving only a new acquaintance to stop their approaching death?

John was suddenly aware of the burning sensation in his hand and he pulled it back from the water with a sharp exhale, shaking it dry of the water. He shoved the plug into the sink with much more force than was necessary, and dropped the mugs into the rising liquid, ignoring the water that splashed back onto his jumper. He squirted the green Fairy in, watching as it foamed under the heavy torrent from the tap. He knew it was a waste to fill the sink just to wash the three mugs but John needed to be out of that silent living room and the washing gave him time to think and to puzzle through the apparent situation.

Only when the sink got close to overflowing did John turn off the tap, letting silence return and the sound of clicking BlackBerry keys drift to his ears. Sherlock must have found his phone then, probably down the side of the sofa, but who was he texting? Lestrade was John's first thought but then he remembered the time with a glance to his now foam covered watch. Sherlock couldn't be texting Lestrade this early; Lestrade would never reply. John listened carefully until the clicking of keys stopped with a final 'ding' as the long text was sent.

With a frown John looked back down at the sink, taking a mug in one hand and a cloth in the other, washing the mugs quietly was he listened. The slight buzzing of a phone on silent shuddered through the air as Mycroft received a message in the lounge. There was no more sound of his phone but John presumed he was now replying as Mycroft never ignored a summon from his mobile. One mug washed later and Sherlock was texting again, the speed of his messages barely slowed even with the use of only his less dominant arm. Eventually the clicking stopped again followed by the buzz of Mycroft's phone mere seconds later as he received another text. John felt his eyebrows rise as realisation struck; were they texting each other?

He risked a glance behind him, watching as Sherlock narrowed his eyes towards his brother, only looking away when the precious BlackBerry in his lap lit up, casting an eerie shadow over his features. He picked up the phone in his left hand, his eyes flicking backwards and forwards as he read what was written on his screen. There was a pause and the screen darkened as the backlight faded, its glow then barely visible in the sunlit room. Mycroft cleared his throat from the sofa and Sherlock shot him a glare before lighting up his phone once again. John turned back to the sink before him, his suspicions confirmed. It still bugged him though, after all, he had never known Sherlock to keep secrets from him before.

After a second he dropped the mug silently into the water and hurried soundlessly thought the kitchen door and into the hall, half hurt and half not wanting to disturb the newly found equilibrium between the two brothers. The first room he came to was Sherlock's and he found himself slowing to a halt outside the door, pushing it open to reveal the mess he remembered inside. The space was now filled with early morning light through the open curtains and John could see the true extent of destruction in the room. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pausing in the doorway and remembering the last time he had been in there, remembering the previous night.

After a second he shook the memory from his mind and crept into the room, careful not to tread on the glass and wood that littered the floor. Crossing to the half-dismantled chest of draws in the corner of the room John set himself the task of packing Sherlock a small overnight bag to take to the hospital with him because many people did have to stay in this type of situation, if only to ensure there were no post-surgery complications. He didn't doubt for a moment that Sherlock would have to have surgery, not after seeing that hideous angle at which his wrist had been bent before.

Now armed with Sherlock's pyjamas and a change of clothes John hurried up to his room to find a bag. He knew Sherlock kept one in the bottom of the wardrobe as many people did but he didn't really want the job of hunting for it in that room and his bag would do just the same job. He stopped at the bathroom on the way, grabbing his friend's toothbrush and deodorant just in case Sherlock required them during his stay. He would probably also want his violin and laptop but those probably wouldn't be very hospital friendly items, not that he would be able to play the violin anyway.

John climbed the stairs, his socks making very little noise against the wood as he moved to his bedroom, wondering whether to take overnight stuff for himself as well. Normally adults weren't allowed overnight visitors, not that any typical rules would be a problem with Mycroft around, but John questioned if Sherlock would want him to stay the night or not. On any normal night he would have known he was wanted, a form of protection for his friend against the stupidity of the hospital staff and to help fight away the boredom of his stay, but now he just wasn't sure.

He paused for a second, taking one last glance around his room before snatching his phone charger off the top of his desk and shoving it in the bag, deciding it was better to be prepared and have to take the charger home later than end up sitting in the hospital with a dead phone and no way to communicate with anyone. On a last spur of the moment thought he added the blanket that had sat folded at the bottom of his bed every day since the cold snap had begun the week before.

Slinging the bag over his shoulder he hurried down the stairs, his treads heavy on the wooden steps with weariness. Leaving the bag on the bottom step John wandered cautiously into the lounge, pausing in the doorway on his way. Sherlock looked up at his friend as he waited in the doorway, his eyes searching over his appearance as he did so. He could tell instantly his friend was tires, that he hadn't slept the night before and had spent the whole night sitting on the floor, he could see the emotional and mental stress carved onto his expression but most of all he could see the worry that was evident there, no matter how deep John tried to keep it hidden.

Sherlock knew in an instant that it was he who was leaving this all on his friend, all the stress and the worry and the pain that now donned the doctor's features. He had never cared for anyone in the way he had for John, a fact that had become blazingly obvious to all after the scenario at the pool. It was strange for him to have that nagging feeling in his chest, the one telling him to do the right thing maybe not for himself but for his friend instead. So it was with that in his heart that he rocked himself to his feet, turning to face his friend who still stood in the doorway, now with a look of confusion on his lined face.

The detective's hands drooped to his sides, his expression blank even through the pain the movement must have caused him. The room fell silent as Mycroft lowered his phone and looked up, his eyebrows contorting as he watched the scene with worry, his gaze flicking between his brother and the army doctor as they stood. He took a breath and then Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, made possibly the first consciously selfless decision he had ever made in his entire life.

"John," he whispered, watching a flicker of confusion flash across his best friends face as his name was called. Sherlock paused and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly to hold his mask in place. He could feel it slipping, the emotions that were slowly breaking through no matter how desperately he tried to keep inside. John stood opposite him, still hovering in the doorway, his head cocked to the side in question. Eventually he looked back up, knowing he could wait no longer.

"I'm ready to go," he admitted shakily, staring straight into the deep blue eyes of his friend.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

It was nearing mid-morning when John finally found himself wandering through to the blue plastic chairs in the waiting room of whichever private hospital it was that Mycroft had ordered them to be driven to. The room was silent and nearly empty; the only occupants a set of parents sitting in the far corner with glazed over worrisome eyes, their hands clasped neatly in their laps. The father looked up as John entered the room, his brown shoes tapping quietly on the lino beneath his feet. For a second the fair-haired man held a look of apprehension before his expression drooped as he realised that it was only another worried family member.

John felt his heart leap as he crossed the room, knowing only too well the disappointment felt by parent when they realised that whoever had come couldn't tell them that their child was safe and would be home and well soon. Just by glancing at the couple he could tell they were waiting for their daughter who was about the age of five judging by the small violet bear clutched in the mother's hands and the size of the tiny coat that rested on her lap. The surgery was unexpected, probably brought on because of a sudden illness to the child judging by the shocked, pale face of the mother and the fact that the father was still wearing a suit, obviously called straight from the office and having no time to stop at home on the way.

John shook his head, pulling himself from the deduction he had just run through in his mind; deducing was Sherlock's job, not his. The man across the room was still looking up, his gaze now fixed on John as he stood frizzed in the middle of the room. After a second the father dipped his head in polite understanding, knowing the shared feeling of heavy dread in all their stomachs that came just from sitting in that very room.

John nodded slightly in return and looked away, politely averting his gaze as he selected a chair in the corner of the opposite side of the room to the parents. He crossed the room as quietly as he could, the only sound in the room belonging to the gentle taps of his shoes on the floor. Carefully he placed the bag that was filled with Sherlock's things on a chair, mindful of the respectful quiet in the room before sitting down next to it on another equally blue chair.

He leant forwards, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, watching numbly as the bright lino patterns slowly blurred beneath his gaze. The thoughts in his brain were swirled and muddled with exhaustion and worry, the only focused thought being Sherlock and the surgery he was now being prepared for. John knew the operation would be quick, a couple of hours at most and that it was only a simple procedure, one that he had performed himself countless times before the army, but there were still risks, of infection and nerve damage and even just the risk of the aesthetic. After all, all surgery held risks.

The silver ticking watch on John's wrist let out a metallic beep into the silent room, signalling the arrival of a new hour. Slowly the ex-army doctor lifted his head and glanced at the three tiny hands on the watch. He paused for a second as he counted back the hours, remembering the beep that had made Sherlock jump back in Mycroft's black Mercedes. He shuddered involuntarily, thinking back to the silent car journey that had seemed so long but in reality had been barely twenty minutes through the illuminated London streets. Sherlock had sat on the back seat, his back ramrod straight and his left hand clamped around his right, the grip tightening every minute until they had reached Mycroft's chosen hospital. He had hidden his expression back behind the famous mask but it was obvious to all who knew him the fear he had buried just below his skin.

John glanced back down at his watch, actually remembering to take in the position of the silver hands on the dial as he did. It was just past eleven, making it over four hours since they had left the flat just after dawn. It was a strange moment for John when Sherlock had finally admitted that he was ready to leave. He had been feeling relived, obviously, but had been determined to hide it from his friend, something he needed to do but was unsure why. Sherlock must have seen through his attempt at a mask though, because the detective had raised one dark eyebrow in a forced kind of humour at his doctor's confused, relieved and weary face.

All sense of humour, either forced or true, had left Sherlock as they had neared the hospital and he had once again become the small, scared boy John had seen back at the flat, his shoulders tensed as he stood half-hidden behind his brother when they had spoken to the dark-haired nurse at the desk. She hadn't said much at first, telling them only to wait for their turn to see a doctor like everybody else. It was only when Mycroft had stepped forwards and leant over the desk, speaking in a hissed whisper to the startled nurse that she jumped to her feet, her eyes wide as she hurried them through a separate door at the end of the waiting room, muttering garbled apologies as she went.

They had still had to wait though, even if it was in a small, carpeted room with soft armchairs and a telly, and John knew that time must have been pure torture for his friend. Sherlock he sat stiffly in a chair in the corner of the room with his feet flat on the floor and his hands in his lap. He had stared blindly at the wall before him with unfocused eyes, oblivious to the worried glances that came his way as he fiddled with the numb fingers in his lap.

For over an hour they had sat in that room, Sherlock's fiddling becoming faster and rougher until John had been forced to call out his friend's name, simply to get him to stop so as not to damage the unfeeling fingers of his right hand further. Sherlock had glanced up for a fraction of a second, his eyes refusing to meet John's, before they returned to his lap, watching as he sharply slid his left hand up, tightening it around the injured wrist instead.

The next time Sherlock had looked up was when a stout, middle-aged man pushed open the doorway, his balding hair prematurely mottled with grey. Mycroft had leaped up from his chair in an instant, ushering the startled doctor from the room and gently shutting the door behind them. They had stayed out there for over five minutes, the faint mumble of hushed voices drifting through the thin whitewashed walls as they spoke. John had sat with Sherlock the whole time, watching as his friend simply went back to thoughtfully staring at his hands, or more likely at his right wrist.

When the door had opened again the doctor had looked much less jolly than before, a hint of concern and worry hidden behind his professional expression, leaving no doubt in John's mind of what Mycroft had been telling the balding middle-aged man. He had called Sherlock from the room, an instruction which Sherlock had followed with little resistance, and had taken them down to the orthopaedic department, an area of the hospital filled with long white corridors which had appeared to stretch on for miles to John's tired brain.

His thoughts wavered and merged, the stark, bright corridors of the hospital in his memories dimming into the dark and deserted ones of Roland Kerr further education college where Sherlock had been taken to on their first ever case. John stood now alone in the dark corridor, the yellow light from the streetlights outside casting long shadows on the tiled floor. Instinctively he broke into a run, sprinting towards the room where he had seen his friend through the window all those months ago. He knew he was yelling, as he had been that time before but his ears were numb to the sound that echoed off the shadowed walls of the collage.

As it always is in dreams, it was a strangely short time before John found himself standing in a long corridor, looking up at the door to the room he had shot Jeff Hope from nearly half a year ago. With his heart racing he pulled open the door, expecting to see the curly haired figure of Sherlock through the window at the far end of the room and that dreaded pill hanging from his fingertips as he slowly drew it towards his parted lips.

But as John ran into the room he found himself back in the pool, in the place he had stood in less than a month before, the brightly coloured changing rooms to his left and the glistening water of the pool on his right. There were no windows across the pool though, only the stark greyness of concrete where the reflections of that _stupid_ meeting in the darkened glass should have been. The pool was empty too, only John in a small dark room surrounded by concrete and the memories of the last time he had been standing at the poolside and the phone call that had saved them all.

A slam of a door behind John made him turn to see that dreaded man standing in his classic Westwood suit, his eyebrows raised in a look of unimpressed boredom. He rounded on John, words falling from his mouth in that Irish lilt but making no sense at all to the doctor's deaf ears. The man advanced, Sherlock's skull-friend in his hand and John found himself pulling a gun he didn't know he possessed from the waistband of his jeans and pointing it at the psychopath before him. He fired once, twice, the bullets hitting the man with a dramatically sickening squelch.

Moriarty swivelled at the impact, bending at the waist as blood blossomed from the gaping black holes in his side. He stumbled, hurling himself at John with his last ounce of strength and pushing them both into the pool with a splash which filled the room, spinning both men until all sense of which way was up was lost entirely. The two men struggled, both hitting out furiously through the water as they tumbled and turned, the water roaring in their ears. John fought harder still, thrashing blindly at the man who held him until they were gone from his grasp, lost in the bubbles and swirls of the pounding water.

Suddenly the water calmed and the bubbles dispersed to a blinding clarity only achievable in dreams. John blinked the water from his eyes only to find Moriarty gone and the boy from Mycroft's pictures in front of him, his dark curls drifting freely in a halo above his head. The boy was wearing his school uniform but it was obvious even through the thick green blazer, heavy and misshapen with water, that the boys right arm was badly broken, his wrist bent at sickeningly unnatural angle.

The small, pale boy looked up and opened his silver eyes as reached out a hand, the green blazer sliding up his arm to reveal the extensive bruising that marred his wrist. He opened his mouth, letting out a stream of bubbles and a single name that made John push himself desperately through the water towards the silent boy.

Little Sherlock was sinking quickly, his tiny body drifting downwards at a rate so much faster than it could be in life. John tried to yell, to tell the child to swim, to kick his legs, to do anything but the boy stayed still, his arms reached out in front of him as a call for rescue and salvation against whatever was dragging him down. John kicked harder against the water, trying to drive himself towards the boy before him, the child that was now his friend.

Then there was an arm suddenly clasped around his shoulder, pulling him away from the tiny, drowning child, relentlessly holding on through his desperate struggles to get free. But Sherlock was still drifting downwards, his blazer-covered arms held above his head in a silent call. He cried out, the tears that crept from his eyes swallowed by the water that engulfed him, begging to be saved, to be helped, but only bubbles of desperation escaped his lips.

"John!"

John awoke with a start, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he jumped upright from his slumped position on the chair. Mycroft's hand was still on his shoulder, gripping just tight enough to be painful even through the thick cloth of his woollen jumper. Seeing John was awake, Mycroft stepped back, taking his hand from the shorter man's shoulder and settling it on the handle of the dark umbrella held with its point just balanced on the lino hospital floor. He was tired, a fact visible in both his posture and expression, and had obviously been home at some point to change as his suit was fresh and ironed unlike the one he had worn to the hospital the night before, crumpled and dusty from his time spent on the floor in Sherlock's room.

"They just took him into Recovery," Mycroft announced from where he stood, his eyes fixed on John who nodded in acknowledgement, his head drooping as he let out a sigh of relief. He hadn't seen Sherlock since he had been asked to leave by the anaesthetist when she had needed to prepare his pale and silent friend for the surgery. Mycroft had stayed, of course, but John hadn't wanted to complicate things with his presence of make Sherlock even more uncomfortable with what was going on around him than he already was.

"How did it go?" he asked a moment later, his voice gently probing for an update as he rubbed the grit from his eyes. They felt heavy and the lids were sticky from sleep as they normally were after a too-early morning or an overly-late night.

"There's not much to say really," He replied somewhat stiffly, pushing himself up taller on his umbrella, his mask held firmly in place and all emotion and thoughts deeply hidden. John huffed softly, reading Mycroft's expressionless face in an instant and knowing that the elder Holmes brother was unwilling to reveal the information he had for whatever reason it was he held. The ex-army medic was used to Mycroft keeping secrets and normally he found he could care less, but when that information was about his friend it was unacceptable.

"Well tell me what you do know then," insisted John, his voice strong and demanding. It was the type of voice he had used back in his army days, the voice of reason that was respected and obeyed without question. There was a pause, both men holding their breath as Mycroft's eyes ran over John, taking in everything they could before he let out a sigh and sat down, angling his legs so he could face his little brother's only true friend.

As it turned out the surgery had gone well, according to Mycroft, and the bone had been straightened and pinned with relative ease. As John had thought back at Baker Street the metal already inside Sherlock's arm had complicated things, but not nearly as much as he had originally feared. He was also thankful to know that his procedure in straightening the arm had not caused any further damage to the muscles or tendons in the wrist, but the results from the tests on the nerves in Sherlock's fingers were not exactly brilliant as it was.

"However, the surgeons can't be sure until he wakes," Finished Mycroft, his eyes fixed as he watched the doctors response. John nodded slowly, running the new information through his mind, his medical knowledge telling him that the nerve damage in Sherlock's wrist was likely to be the Ulnar Nerve or the Median Nerve as both could be caused by a break caused by the person falling on outstretched hands. Damage to either of the nerves could cause loss of motion and feeling, a highly unwelcome complication for anyone, let alone Sherlock.

He would be frustrated, initially by the cast and the lack of movement he was allowed and the pain that any use of his arm would cause. He would be annoyed by any fussing too, any break in the normality of their flat. He wouldn't be able to go on cases properly either, not for a couple of months at least for the risk of damaging the bone again would be high. That was even if there wasn't any nerve damage to deal with.

John sighed, a sudden feeling of guilt setting in his stomach as it finally fell on him how much pain and frustration he had inadvertently caused for his friend. He had tried to help Sherlock but all he had succeeded in doing was upsetting him and disturbing the break in his arm. If only he had left the detective alone. The arm would have healed on its own, to some degree at least, Sherlock would be calm and mentally well, and the two of them would still be sitting in their chairs, watching rubbish on the telly like every other night.

"John, don't be too hard on yourself," Said Mycroft, his voice strangely soft as he easily caught on to the doctor's train of thoughts. "You weren't to know he would react like that."

John sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead in frustration. "I know, I know," He muttered, his voice strangely aggressive as if he held no agreement in what had been said to him and was just agreeing out of necessity .

Mycroft thought for a moment before turning back to the exasperated man beside him. "John, you're the only friend that Sherlock has, and right now I think he will need you more than ever."

John grunted, his eyes fixed on the floor as he replied. "What he needs, Mycroft, is family." He said simply, his voice quiet voice filled with a hint of deflation. Sherlock had spoken briefly about his family, although only once. John had always know the importance of family as a child but even more as an adult when his parents were dead and his sister had become a drunk.

Apparently though, the Holmes family had never been close, hiring nannies for their children and then sending them off to boarding school during their teenage years. It was only on that first case that Sherlock had ever spoken of his mother, during the short conversation they had held with Mycroft in which he had referred to her in past tense, giving John the impression that she had passed away at some point earlier in her son's life.

When there was no reply he glanced up to see that the man beside him had silently risen to his feet, his body turned to look down the bleak white corridor. John leant forwards, looking round the elder Holmes to see the same young nurse that had been sat at the reception when they had arrived walking towards them, her rubber-soled shoes making little noise on the lino floor. Mycroft was watching her too, his body tense as she hurried towards them. She came to a halt in front of them, her shoulders rising and dropping sharply as she caught her breath.

"Sir, could you come with me please," She asked urgently, her wide eyes fixed on Mycroft.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note**

I'm really sorry this took so long, the next chapters to this and Hidden Motive should be up soon.

Bumblie x

Chapter 10

Mycroft held his breath as he walked down the corridor behind the nurse, his umbrella clutched tightly in his hand. It had been a present from his mother the birthday before he had left for university and one of the last things she had given him. He had debated keeping it safe, leaving in his in his house so that he could never lose it or break it or damage it in any sort of way, but that would be sentiment, and he was a Holmes. He knew his mother would have wanted him to use it anyway; it was what she had bought it for.

A yell that echoed down the corridor broke his thought and he drew in a breath in a strangled sort of gasp. The nurse obviously recognised the wailing too as she glanced back with an apologetically worried expression and picked up her pace. The noise continued as they walked until they rounded a corridor and stopped in front of a dark wooden door. It was old, like most of the furnishings in the hospital, and sturdy but opened smoothly when the nurse turned the handle. The noise level nearly doubled as they stepped into the room, but to Mycroft it barely registered as his eyes fixed on the figure thrashing on the bed.

Sherlock was neither awake nor truly asleep, caught somewhere between the two in a dream-world of panic and nightmares. His eyes were shut, still sticky from the tape of surgery that was yet to be properly removed and the tears that had leaked past his lids. His limbs were thrashing wildly, his right hand swamped in a heavy white bandage and a broken IV still taped into his left, whilst his legs wrestled beneath the sheets. The medical staff stood clumped around the bed, caught somewhere between restraining their patient to sedate him and stopping him from hurting himself further.

"Myc!" Sherlock mumbled as he cried, the word mostly lost between his sobs. "Myc, please help me, please." He was pale, though no more so than usual, but his cheeks were flushed and his curls stuck to his forehead, damp with cold sweat. Mycroft drew in a breath and stepped forwards, pushing past the nurse and only stopping beside the bed on which his brother lay. He reached out a hand, sending a glare at the doctor who moved to stop him, and hovered it over his brother, wanting so much to gather him in his arms as he had when they were tiny but fearing sending him deeper into his nightmare- filled panic. Sherlock called out again and Mycroft shut his eyes, knowing just how much his brother would hate to be seen like this.

"Sherlock?" He called quietly, his hand coming to rest on his brother's pale shoulder. Sherlock flinched away instantly ad he reached up, fighting at the hand which had touched him. His eyes were still shut but he was begging now, his voice mumbled by tears and heightened with terror. Mycroft held on, putting his other hand on his brother's head in what he desperately hoped was a calming matter. Sherlock recoiled further away, his body colliding with the metal railings of his bed with a clatter and turned his head away from the touch. He wailed again, pushing away at the hands in defence as he begged them not to hurt him.

"Sherlock? Stop this, It's just a nightmare, it's, Locket please?" he almost shouted, despair taking over his tone and his professional aurora all but gone. He felt so useless; there was normally something he could do, someone he could boss around until he got what he wanted but now there was nothing, his baby brother was thrashing in torment and all he could do was yell and plead and hope he would snap out of it. Sherlock flinched on the bed at the loud voice but then stilled, his breathing still harsh and so loud in the sudden silence of the room. Everyone stopped, the room all but turning to stone for mere seconds before the medical staff rushed forwards, and slid the needle smoothly into the IV port as they administered the sedative. Mycroft swallowed, both his breathing and hands shaky. He wasn't used to this, too feeling, and seeing his normally so emotionally controlled brother in such a state that he hadn't seen since they were children, since the day their mother had died, was getting to him. On the bed Sherlock stirred, his eyes flickering as he fought the anaesthetic.

"Myc?" he whispered eventually, his voice slurred from the drugs and rough from crying. He gazed up in confusion, his eyes barely focusing on his brother's face before they drifted shut again.

"I'm so sorry Locket," Mycroft whispered shakily as he pulled his hand from his brother's sweat-soaked curls.

It was nearly two hours later that Mycroft returned to the waiting area. The room was less empty than when he has left but was still quiet and still lacked the hustle and bustle of the typical state-funded hospital. John was still sitting in his seat, his hands clamped together in his lap and his eyes staring blindly at the chequered lino. He was tired, both mentally and physically and it showed clearly in his slumped posture and the dark rings beneath his eyes. He looked up briefly at the sound of footsteps, taking in Mycroft's worn appearance before his head dropped back to floor. Mycroft sat down beside him, resting his black umbrella neatly on his lap, the worn tip pointing towards the door.

"I'm surprised you didn't try to follow me, Doctor," He said eventually, his voice at that strange husky balance between normal speech and a whisper in the silent room. John grimaced but didn't look up. He had wanted to go, and it had taken so much strength just to sit there and ignore the urge to get to Sherlock, to help in whatever emergency the nurse had taken Mycroft to. He hadn't been needed though, and he could have just made things worse, that was all he had managed to do the evening before despite trying so hard to do what he had thought to be right.

"I wouldn't have been allowed; hospital policy," he said eventually, his tone empty. Mycroft chuckled blandly beside him, eventually drawing in a breath before speaking again.

"I think both you and I know the validity of that excuse," he said with a sigh. John grunted in reply and sat up, turning to properly look at the man beside him, his eyes finally focusing on the red scratches on the back of his hands. They weren't deep, no blood was drawn, but they were randomly placed in lines of three or four crossing over the back of Mycroft's hands and disappearing under the sleeves of his blazer. John had seen scratches just like them times before, he'd had them himself sometimes too; Military patients were often combative when they awoke from aesthetic.

"They've sedated him now," Said Mycroft, quietly, his tone barely above a whisper. "He woke before they had assumed he would, he came to too quickly and panicked. It's his past, they think, he would have built up quite a resistance to that sort of thing over the years". John nodded silently, the thoughts of Sherlock and drugs whirring in his mind before he spoke.

"Mycroft, why did Sherlock turn to drugs?" The elder Holmes appeared to tense at the question but he continued anyway when the other man made no move to speak. "People don't just turn to drugs for no reason, there's always a reason, no matter how well it's buried."

Mycroft didn't move, his posture like marble. He opened his mouth and then shut it again as though having second thoughts about what he was going to say. When he did speak his voice was carefully controlled. "Do you think we should find somewhere a little more private to have this conversation, Doctor Watson?"

A short walk later John found himself back in the first room they had waited in, the one where Sherlock had sat in the chair like a frightened child and fiddled with his hands. It was only hours ago, however many John had given up counting, but it felt like days had passed since then, and weeks before that they had been sitting in the flat, John trying to decide the best ways to confront his friend about his suspected broken wrist.

Mycroft locked the door behind him and settled stiffly in a chair, his back ram-rod straight. John took a seat opposite him and waited, his hands rested in his lap. The light was brighter in the room than before, the open curtains letting in the clouded light from outside.

"Sherlock's always been different, ever since he was a child," started Mycroft all of a sudden, his eyes focused on John and his fingers picking at the hem of his black umbrella. "But none of that seemed to matter to neither the other children nor the teachers when he was in Pre-Prep. That's up until the end of year two, "he added, noticing John's puzzled expression. " He was always clever, so much more intelligent than his year group and in the end he was moved up a year. But as I said before, the problems started when Sherlock started Prep school. He was a year younger the other boys in his year group already, and just as smart as the eleven year olds at the top of the school in Upper Three –year six to you. He made enemies with them easily, telling them deductions about themselves and each other; he didn't understand they didn't want to know, he was just telling them the truth. They bullied him horribly, Sherlock would tell me at first, say the mean boys didn't like him, but then he stopped talking and shut himself up in his room, always reading or sitting in his mind palace.

"It got worse after Christmas, until he broke his wrist at school. He never spoke about it, still no one knows exactly what happened, and still it's a mystery on his medical records. It was me that noticed it, he was only eating with one hand, the other cradled on his lap. He used to eat with one hand most of the time anyway just to annoy Father, but never with his left, always his right. Mother spent more time with him after that, she moved him to another school and he became happier, started speaking and playing his violin again once his arm had healed. He bonded with our Mother over the next three years, it was she that really taught him to _play_ the violin, she began to understand him, I think.

"It all want wrong again when our Mother died. It was sudden, a car crash, she was there that morning and gone by lunch. Sherlock shut himself up in his room for days after he was told, playing sad songs on his violin for most of the time. Things did get better afterwards, slowly as they always do when someone that close dies, but they improved. That September Sherlock started Senior School, and at the same time I left for university leaving Sherlock alone with Father. He saw it as abandonment, that I had left him behind because I didn't care about him anymore. Sherlock was never close to Father, he was just too free-minded, they only ever spoke to argue.

"Sherlock started senior school badly, he had been abandoned by both Mother and I and left with a Farther who didn't really care. He was bullied again too, defending himself with deductions much like he does now and shutting himself up in his mind palace. I wrote to Sherlock that year but he didn't reply, I hadn't really expected him to; he was too stubborn to forgive me that easily. He ignored me mostly when I returned home that summer, and I was frankly too self-interested to notice. I left home after that year, and the next time I saw him he was shallow faced and silent, a mere ghost of the child he had once been.

"I don't know when it was exactly that he turned to drugs, but when I returned home one summer he was a different person, a stranger. He had stopped speaking again, but not in the same way as before, and he spent a majority of the little time he was home in his room. I thought he was just in his Mind Palace originally, it took me quite a while before I realised it was drugs." Mycroft sighed, his eyes fixed on the window. He stayed silent, his hands clasping his umbrella and his expression numbly blank. A small knock sounded at the door and John silently pushed himself to his feet to unlock it.

"Um, Mr Holmes it awake now, if you would like to see him now," she said nervously, her bright eyes darting between John and Mycroft who was still facing the window. John opened his mouth to reply, wanting so much to see Sherlock but unsure if that would help or complicate things further.

"Go, John; he would undoubtedly reject my presence anyway," Mycroft said blandly, his gaze still focused on the window and his tone empty of emotion once again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Authors Note!**

**So I am still here, I'm just an awfully slow writer. I honestly can't remember when was the last time I updated this, but here is another chapter. The story is coming to a close now, so you shouldn't have to put up with my awful updating skills for too much longer! I really am sorry about the wait though, I didn't leave it at a very nice place for you either. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this chapter after such a long wait, **

**Bumblie Bee **

Chapter 11

Sherlock was sitting up in bed when John entered room, his long legs crossed beneath the duvet and his right arm heavily bandaged and lying in his lap. He held his phone in his left hand, the IV line trailing over the bedclothes and the phone's keys clicking loudly in the silent room as he typed. Or tried to type, for his frustrated expression suggested that even Sherlock found texting on a BlackBerry with only his less dextrous hand a bit of a challenge. He didn't look up as John entered, his eyes remaining fixed on the phone, but the clicking slowed for just a fraction of a second as if he was mentally debating whether to look up or not.

John waited briefly, deciding what to do, and then cleared his throat, moving to sit in the chair beside Sherlock's bed. He picked up the medical board sitting on the bedside table, it wasn't normally stored there, and especially not when a patient was awake. There were no rules saying a patient couldn't read his notes but it always seen to be best if they didn't, everything that they needed to know they would be told anyway. Sherlock must have been reading his, it was the sort of thing he would want to see and wouldn't see the problem in doing.

The notes from Sherlock's surgery were short and yet easily detailed enough for John to get a decent understanding of what had gone on during his friend's operation. The pieces of metal that were still in the arm had been removed as best as possible and the bone had been fixed with new plates and screws and; the whole procedure had been done with practically no complications. They had checked his nerves during the surgery too, and from what was written in the notes it seemed that once the pressure had been removed and the bones returned to their correct position the responses of Sherlock's nerves had improved considerably, although they had still not returned to what was considered normal. Sherlock could be called lucky to still have such responsive nerves after everything that had happened the evening before, not many people had such an improvement in their nerves once they had been damaged.

John looked up to notice Sherlock's phone was resting on the bed covers, his left hand picking uselessly at the bandages covering his arm. It was usual for patients who had had surgery to not have a cast at first as the bandage allowed easier access to the incisions. It was likely to be replaced with a harder and more supportive cast later, either that or a plastic splint to hold the arm stiff whilst still being easily removable. A splint was probably a better idea as it was waterproof and washable and Heaven knows what Sherlock would be doing in the next however many weeks it would be that he would have to wear the cast for. The only problem was that a splint would be much more easily removable when Sherlock decided he had had enough of the restricted arm movement, which was something John knew he was bound to have problems with.

"You were lucky," he said, his voice catching as he tried to force lightness into it and failing considerably. Sherlock's eyes flicked up, meeting John's for the merest of seconds as he let out a choked laugh. It wasn't really a laugh at all, it was more of a huff of breath spat out that stuck in his throat along the way, and John knew that despite Sherlock's ability to giggle at the most inappropriate situations he was not finding this at all funny. His eyes had now returned to the bandages on his arm, his left hand picking ever more violently at the medical tape holding them fastened.

"Sherlock…," His eyes flashed up then without a pause followed John's deliberate gaze back to his arm where the tape had begun to peel away, leaving a grey sticky stipe on the white bandage below. He pulled his left hand away, noticing for the first time the tacky adhesive now caught under the edge of his thumbnail. Sighing, he picked up his phone again and flopped back against the pillows. The browser had still been open from the night before when he had opened it, still on the website about paint toxicity he had been on when John had started to ask about his arm. It seemed so long ago that John had first broached the subject, and somehow so short at the same time too, as if time had been warping and changing since John had started that stupid conversation. Forcing his mind back to the tiny screen of the phone he tried to continue reading, but it was hard to concentrate when his thoughts kept wandering and straying from the page.

"When can I go?" he asked a minute later, letting the phone fall back onto the bed with a light thump. There was no emotion is Sherlock's tone at all, it was a question to get an answer and simply that, not an invitation small talk in the slightest. John looked up from the medical file he was holding in his hands, skipping back through the earlier entries.

"When your doctor says you can, he'll come and see you in a bit now you're awake, I expect." John replied, letting the medical board fall flat on his knees when Sherlock simply huffed in reply. He lifted a hand rubbed the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders a little to try and force away the oncoming headache. It felt so long since he had got a proper night's sleep and his head was beginning to complain. Sherlock noticed his discomfort and glanced up, his grey eyes hard.

"You can go home if you want to, there's nothing holding you here,' he said, his tone icy and the 'you' ever so slightly louder as if to force the point that although John could go home he was still unable to leave. John didn't reply, he knew by Sherlock's tone that it wouldn't help. He picked up the file on his knees and tried to continue reading but although his eyes followed the lines left to right across the sheet from the top of the writing to the bottom they took none of it in, the words forgotten as soon as his eyes had moved on. He was aware of Sherlock's eyes burning into him and that the clicking had stopped too but he tried to ignore it.

"You blame yourself, don't you? It's why you're still here." Sherlock said quietly a couple of minutes later, his voice so much softer than before, icy and cold and all too smooth like the calm before the storm. John looked up at his friend, sitting in the hospital bed only a meter or so away from him and able to read him as easily as he had read the many books that sat on his shelves in their flat. Their eyes locked for a moment, grey boring their way into brown before John pulled away with a sigh.

"Sherlock, I was trying to help you," he said simply, not knowing what else to say because it was true, he did blame himself for what had happened even though he knew in the logical part of his mind that he had done the right thing, the sensible doctor-like thing that he had been taught to do so many years ago before the army. Sherlock huffed a laugh, his eyes were cold and yet burning with anger and his face was set hard in fury. Even sat in bed wearing a hospital gown with one arm encased in bandages and the other held by wires he looked somehow dangerous.

"But I didn't want your help, John." Sherlock hissed, "I was fine before you interfered, but you always have to do that, don't you?" He paused, his cold eyes darting up and down, glancing over John like a client before he smirked and his eyes fixed at last. "It's because of your sister isn't it? You can't help her so you go round forcing that help upon everybody else whether they have asked for it or not, you save them because you can't save her, to try and make up for how little you could do for her." John wasn't sure if what Sherlock was saying about him was a true deduction or if it was just a product of his sudden anger but it sounded right now that he thought about it. Harry had started drinking before he made his decision to be a doctor, but he had always put it down to how his parents had never been saved when a car had swerved in front of them on the way home from the theatre. Not that there was a huge difference really, Harry wouldn't have ended up such a mess if their parents had come home that night. John tried to keep his expression blank but he was never any good at acting and knew the second Sherlock's suddenly furious expression settled into a smirk that he had failed, and in his friends eyes proved his deduction was right.

"I didn't know you would react like that," replied John after a beat, his voice forced calm as he ignored what his flatmate had deduced and thought back to the moment when he had first told Sherlock to go to the hospital all those days ago. It was true, he hadn't expected Sherlock to have been avoiding a hospital trip for a reason other than him thinking it was in the right position and being lazy about it, he had never shown any signs of fearing the hospital before. Although it wasn't really the hospital he had feared at all, it was the memories of his childhood that the whole situation had freed that were hurting him.

"How did you think I would react? I'm a freak, remember? He all but yelled, the words harsh and furious. It was only a second of silence later that his shoulders suddenly dropped, their defensiveness gone. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, and then suddenly kicked the covers back and in one shaky yet strong movement stood up, turning away from John and taking the few unsteady steps between his bed and the window. He stood there in silence, his back to the room and his right arm tucked close to his body like an injured wing. John said nothing, he knew it wouldn't help, so he sat there patiently waiting for Sherlock to come to whatever conclusion his turmoiled mind was trying to reach and praying that he didn't move any further away with the already training IV line still in the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry, I just…"the detective said eventually, his voice sounding strained and trailing off as if he still couldn't find the words to say what he needed to. His eyes were closed again, John could see it in his reflection in the window, and he ran his shaking left hand through his mattered curls in frustration. The hand stopped, staying shakily on Sherlock's head. John had never seen his friend looking so lost, not even at the Baskerville case after he had seen the Hound.

"Sherlock, listen-" John said after another minute of silence. His voice stronger now and calmer, being angry or upset now wouldn't help at all. He knew that Sherlock blamed him for what had happened now, and as much as he hated that this wasn't about him at all, and certainly not now. It was almost as soon as he had started to speak that another voice spoke quietly over the top of his.

"Please John not now, just…just leave me alone, I need to think," whispered the detective, his eyes still closed and his head now bowed in defeat. He needed time and quiet, some space to try and sort his thought back out and go through the memories he had found again. They were unpleasant, most of them anyway, and to have them all replaying round and round in his head after being locked away for so long was nearly too much to deal with. It's hard to think, or to do anything really, when there were small children in your head calling you a freak and twisting your arm up behind you until it snapped. The pain in his arm wasn't helping either.

John sat silent for a moment, hearing the desperation in Sherlock's voice but internally debating whether it would be safe for him to leave him to his memories alone. The image of Sherlock rocking in a corner, stuck in his mind palace and unable to get away from his torments was burnt into his mind. Eventually friend won over doctor and slowly he put the file he was still holding back on the table and got to his feet, never taking his eyes from the motionless figure by the window.

"Alright, I'm going down to the café for a bit, but you're not to leave this room whilst I'm gone. Please?" Sherlock was still for a second more before he nodded his head, just one slight dip of his head and nothing more but it was still a yes. John sighed a breath of relief and muttered a quiet 'thank you' before turning away from his friend and leaving the room, shutting the door with a slight click as he left.


End file.
